The Silent Song
by Eirian Erisdar
Summary: When Qui-Gon Jinn is suggested to take a new padawan, the Force pushes him towards a certain initiate - but when Qui-Gon is told that Obi-Wan cannot speak, he hesitates. How will they work out their partnership, and how will Qui learn to adapt to this silent, but wondrous padawan? AU Jedi Apprentice era. Featuring Mace Windu, Dooku, Tahl, Kit Fisto, and others!
1. The Music of the Spheres

**Well, hello there. My regular readers may be wondering why I'm writing this instead of my long overdue Naruto chapter (WHICH WILL BE UP BY SATURDAY), but hey, it's summer and I did a Star Wars movie marathon. Which brought on all the feels from when a read the JA books a long while ago. And then I watched The Clone Wars. And finally, I got a feel for what the Star Wars fanfiction community is like…**

**And Obi-angst. Muahahaha.**

**So, with no further ado, I give you **_**The Silent Song**_**. Featuring an adorable –if silent – Obi-Wan, Uncertain!Qui, lyrical angsty stuff and angsty lyrical stuff (there's a difference! Believe me!) and my love of Obi!**

**Thank you all. Enjoy.**

(:~:)

The main training salle is a gleaming arena of paradoxes, ordered chaos, an arena divided by thin lines of restraint and desperation. There is _vergence_ in the Force, to be sure. To the initiates that twirl and dance about each other, cloaked in tongues of sapphire and emerald flame, today is a crossroad in the Unifying Force; a day in which an age-old tradition among the Order may be honoured, the bond between that of a Master and Padawan forged; or a day of disappointment, at the end of which pain would dissipate into the flowing currents of the Living Force.

Perhaps a divergence, after all. Two paths. That of a Padawan, a _path-seeker_, or the other – unthinkable. Unbearable, _failure._

Master Cin Drallig's sharp voice snaps an order, and eighteen blades hiss back into their hilts like hot iron in seawater, sending frustration, battle-joy and focussed energy dissipating into the air, leaving the Force glowing, heated, like the fumes in a sword-forge after the completion of a blade.

A murmur sweeps though the knights and masters gathered on the observation platform as the breathless hum of two lightsabers remain, as discordant as their wielders.

"Initiate Chun! Initiate Kenobi!" Master Drallig's bark is as cutting as any whip. "Cease!"

One of the two boys, one with as rich red-brown hair as the other's is white, flings a glance at Master Drallig as he flips backwards to dodge his opponent's wild swing. Sky-blue eyes hold a mix of desperation and measured control.

Cin Drallig's eyes narrow in understanding. "Initiate _Chun_," he calls, voice dropping dangerously low.

But it is unlikely the boy called Bruck Chun can hear the Jedi master's voice over his own battle-cries.

"Pick up your feet, _Kenobi_," the white-haired twelve-year-old snarls at the boy opposite. "Since you're so _eloquent _with a lightsaber, why don't you open that mouth of yours and say something back?"

Shocked affront radiates from the observation platform.

Kenobi's lips press into a thin line, and while his movements had been entirely defensive following Master Drallig's orders, his wrist twitches, betraying an urge to strike even as his Force-presence blazes with incandescent light.

Mutterings of approval spread like forest winds through the gathered audience as the initiate sinks deeper into the Force, its very eddies seeming to cradle every parry and block as he moves _through_ the light, biding his time in a slow dance of patience until a quick movement disarms his opponent, sending two halves of a training saber's hilt skidding across the marked floor.

Obi-Wan Kenobi retracts his saber and gives the merest of bows to his opponent, before pivoting seamlessly and sinking into a deep and apologetic bow to Master Drallig.

The Battlemaster-to-be regards him keenly for a moment, then favours him with a wry smile. "Well fought, Initiate Kenobi."

The boy nods his thanks, and files out of the salle with the rest of his age-mates, too tired to notice the spectacle of several Jedi masters heading towards Bruck Chun with thunderous expressions on their faces.

"Done well, you have, Obi-Wan," Master Yoda humphs at him by the exit.

Obi-Wan manages an exhausted bow, then turns to leave.

Throughout it all, the sparring match, the taunts, receiving praise, he has not said a word.

Up on the now-empty observation balcony, Mace Windu turns to his old friend. "What did you think, Qui-Gon? Any caught your eye?"

Qui-Gon Jinn folds his hands into opposite sleeves, the very epitome of the grave Jedi Master. "None, Mace," he replies. "I have told you before, have I not? I will not take another padawan. But," he relents, "I _am_ interested in something else entirely. That Initiate…Kenobi, was it? I'd like to speak to him."

The Korun master's expression folds into a grimace. "Ah, Qui, now that's just the thing…"

(:~:)

Obi-Wan lingers on the overgrown path of the inner solarium, basking in the late afternoon warmth. The Force drifts lazily here, but clearly, like the quiet but steady crystal of the meandering brook at his feet. This garden is a cloister, a hidden paradise sequestered away in an oft-forgotten corner of the Temple. It has not the chuckling water of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, or the cacophony of muffled murmurs that are the Archives. Here, there is silence.

Obi-Wan can almost hear himself _speak._

He has often imagined what his own voice would be like. Having never had the chance to _vocalise_ that wish, Obi-Wan can only dream. _I'd like a nice voice,_ he muses. _Not as deep as Master Bondara's…but not as gruff as Master Piell's. A singing voice!_ For a moment, Obi-Wan is not under sun and sky but rather in the sleeping rooms of the crèche, soothing Bant's nightmares from her with a lullaby.

But the dream fades as quickly as the soaring in his heart, and all is silent once more.

But perhaps that is for the best.

Here, in the heady air where even the Force lies wordless, Obi-Wan is one with the Force, welcomed, _cherished_. He _can_ speak to the twisting branches above and shivering leaves below, for they are silent, and so is he. Here there is a peace deeper than meditation can offer.

Obi-Wan folds himself onto his knees, closes his eyes, and _listens._

The barest of breezes catches the last of his cold sweat from his sparring match and brushes it away, refreshing him in the scent of freshly crushed leaves. There are flashes of bright life in the Force – a napping dormouse with its litter under a tree there, sudden birdsong thrumming the network of silver-limned boughs above – small sounds that do not disturb the silence. Obi-Wan is not meditating, not exactly. He centres himself, but not in the manner that he has been taught. He is the centre, for there _is_ no centre. The galaxy seems to halt in the flow of time and suck in a breathless gasp of wonder as for a moment, a young boy merges with the Force and finds in its iridescent depths the music of the spheres.

The sharp _clack_ of a gimer stick jerks Obi-Wan out of his trance with uncharacteristic lack of aplomb.

Yoda's gimlet eyes hold measured mirth. "Brooding, are you, young one?"

Obi-Wan shakes his head rapidly, only to still himself in mortification when he realises the lack of _control_ in the motion. A blush creeps up his cheeks.

"Humph. Brooding, you were not. Brooding, you are _now._"

A shift of surprise, followed by a slow dip of the head. _Yes, master, _comes the silent reply.

"Back to the crèche with you," Yoda huffs, the Force around alight with suppressed glee and hidden knowledge. "Dwell not on _trying._"

Acknowledgement shines in two grey-blue eyes as Obi-Wan makes first one bow, and then a second towards a seemingly empty wall, before scurrying off. As the red-brown mop of hair disappears around the corner, Yoda finally lets his amusement bubble forth in quiet chuckles. "Thoughts have you, Master Windu?"

Mace Windu sports a contrite grin of his own as he emerges from the shadows. "How in nine hells did he sense me? I kept my Force-signature tightly furled."

Yoda's stick raps a line across the Korun master's shins. "A good match, is it not?" he mutters gruffly.

Mace has the good sense to ignore the ache in his calves as he replies. "It certainly seems like the will of the Force. We just have to convince that old desert _djinn_ to choose the boy as his apprentice. Then the two of them could brood up a dark hole in the Force." He bites back a curse as Yoda's stick lands across his knees again in a solid _thwack._

"Interfere too much, we must not!" A clawed hand tightens on the knobbly wood. "If will of the Force it _is_, then decided, it shall be."

Master Windu feels every bit the padawan again as he makes a deep bow to the most revered head of the Jedi Order. "Yes, Master."

"Hmmph. Good." Yoda's tone suddenly changes, as abruptly as the topic. "Late, it is. Tea, padawan?"

(:~:)

Qui-Gon Jinn professes no little embarrassment for his so obviously uncentred state as the turbolift deposits him in front of the tenth-level crèches. Well, by _professes,_ it remains that the knowledge is contained within a cool mask of perfect Jedi calm.

His determination wavers, however, when faced with a once-plain door lettered in lurid colours, _The Dragon Clan/Jedi Master Ali-Alann_. It wavers even further when the shrieking of a dozen sugar-fueled force-sensitive younglings stab into his ears through solid durasteel.

Qui-Gon grimaces as he remembers that tonight is the one night of the week in which the crèchelings are given dessert. Thoughts dart through his mind. The voice of reason wars with the voice of excuse. _A negotiator knows when to withdraw,_ he muses. _Only by conceding a momentary retreat can one push forward at a later time._ With his thought happily in place, Qui-Gon pivots on one booted foot, turns, and–

The door slides open behind him, and the booming voice of Ali Alann assaults his eardrums. "Qui-Gon! To what do I owe the pleasure, old friend?"

With an efficiency born from years of practice, Qui-Gon plasters a convincing smile on his face and reverses his direction smoothly. "Good evening, Ali," he says, pleasantly enough.

"Come in, come in," Ali replies brusquely, waving Qui-Gon in with a broad hand. Qui-Gon and Ali Alaan are of about the same height – tower-like – but Master Alaan is built much more stoutly. Qui Gon hides his amusement at the notion that his friend could herd younglings simply by wading though them.

As the crèche master insists on bustling into the next room to make tea, Qui-Gon finds himself sat rather uncomfortably on a play bench far too low for his long limbs. He faces the younglings. And sucks in a slow breath. _Patience._

There might as well be twelve _krayt dragons_ in front of him instead of twelve Jedi Initiates. Proper Jedi Initiates are calm, reserved; these unholy terrors must surely belong to some other Order. A bolo-ball rebounds between the children like some demented ballistic missile. The metal surface of the sphere never really touches hands or feet or tunics, but must be subject to immense g-forces as Force pushes explode at it from all directions. Force-bolo is listed in the Archives as a common Force-control exercise for younglings, but the long-held and greatly humoured rumour within the higher ranks is that the game was invented during the Great Sith Wars to prepare younglings for battle.

Qui-Gon snorts. It certainly looks like it. Dragon Clan, aptly named.

But he is wrong, apparently. For while it first seemed that this particular crèche is home to twelve krayt dragons, in reality, there are only eleven. The twelfth, and somehow _separate_, is Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Qui-Gon had at first thought that the screams of exhilaration issued from twelve hoarse throats, but Obi-Wan's lips are tightly shut, a thin line of concentration. Sweat beads his short spiky hair, runs down the one longer tress that could, someday in the future, be twisted into a padawan braid. For a sudden, clear instant, Qui-Gon almost fancies he sees a vision. Almost, because he is a Living Force user, through and through. _Could I be the one to braid that lock of hair? _Qui-Gon leans forward abruptly, piercing azure eyes fixed on Obi-Wan's movements.

Obi-Wan's leaps and twists in midair are as excited and joyous as the others' around him, but in those seemingly innocent movements, Qui-Gon observes more. A Soresu stance here, Ataru backflip there, melding perfectly into a precise Force-push that lances into the bolo-ball and whips it in a perfect trajectory past six other small heads into the waiting goal-box.

Qui-Gon feels a grin tug at his lips even as a stray thought darts into his mind: the boy must be taught _restraint._ That Force-push had _flair_, certainly, but it could also easily have broken the nose of another initiate. He notices Obi-Wan's eyes are already darting over the floor, undoubtedly plotting another path to victory. Another lesson to be taught – victory is not the sole pursuit of a Jedi.

But it does not escape Qui-Gon that while his age-mates run, Obi-Wan _dances._

A sweet cup of honeyed tea appears by his elbow. You've come to take away one of mine, I see," Ali Alann sighs, his voice a mixture of pride and a slight touch of sorrow. "What can I say? The Code forbids attachment, but I love them all anyway. They're just so precious."

Qui-Gon formulates an answer while he sips the warm brew. "Rest assured, _Master_ Alann," he chuckles. "At least for now. I am simply obliging a whim."

Ali Alann raises an eyebrow. Crèche master he is, but _Jedi_ master, also. He is not so easily fooled. "Of course," he replies, nodding graciously at his friend. He allows a pregnant pause to give his following words as much bruising strength as possible on Qui-Gon's ego. "…I assume this is about Obi-Wan?" Ali asks. Or states. There really isn't a difference.

His face wiped carefully blank, Qui-Gon reflects that Ali Alann is probably more suited to a career in politics and peacekeeping. _That perceptive Sithspawn. _ "What can you tell me about him?" he murmurs into his teacup. He will not concede defeat by directly replying to the question.

"Well, he's perfect. Or very near to perfect, as far as an Initiate goes," Ali Alann mutters, idly swirling his tea. "He's whole light-years ahead of his age-group in 'saber skills – he's _mastered_ all the basic required forms for Shii-Cho and is moving on to specialising in some of the more modern forms. According to masters Drallig and Boondara, he's chosen Ataru, with some Soresu on the side." A sly grin. "You could teach him plenty."

Qui-Gon waves the loaded question away as he does the steam from his tea. "Force-skills?"

Ali Alann flicks a finger at the holo-ball match. Qui-Gon nods. No further explanation needed.

"And then there's his proficiency in academics." Master Alann's tone has taken on a world-weary air of parental pride. "He would spend the whole day, every day in the Archives if Madame Nu would let him – she's got a soft spot for him, you know that? – And when he comes out, he usually has an armful of holo-books. Politics, History, Philosophy – he quotes _Chakora Seva _in his writings. I could give you some samples if you want."

Qui-Gon doesn't know whether to laugh or to stare incredulously. "That would be appreciated."

A pause, in which the tea is nearly all consumed and distraction nearly spent.

"Weaknesses?"

"He's very, _very_ strong in the Unifying Force. I know you think it doesn't really matter whether we belong to the Living or Unifying, but he has visions nearly every night. I don't think he's had a normal dream since age three. This is when his Force-skills are but a shadow of what they could be – try dealing with it in the field."

Qui-Gon winces. "That is unfortunate."

Ali Alann begins to speak, and then catches himself. He takes a quick breath. "Qui, he's–"

"I know."

The crèche master sets down his tea with a tired movement. "It shouldn't interfere with his life as a Jedi… but given the nature of most of your missions, I don't know whether…"

"I'll think about it." Qui-Gon knows he has just admitted outright to his interest in Obi-Wan to be his Padawan, but the problem of _negotiation_ remains. What padawan of a peacekeeper and mediator could not debate?

A voice breaks into his thoughts.

"They'll enter a food-coma soon," Ali Alann observes dispassionately as the children's movements slow. "Thank the Force. I need a full night's sleep for once."

"Ali…"

"I'll give you five minutes with him. You can come back tomorrow if you want."

A grateful nod. "You have my thanks."

Ali Alann gathers the empty cups. "Qui-Gon. I know I can trust you to be _tactful._" Something in his voice belies worry.

"Lessons are not taught by tact alone."

For a moment, the crèche master sounds suspiciously like Master Tahl Uvain. "Don't give me that negotiator drivel. I get that often enough from Obi-Wan."

A small laugh from Qui-Gon. A rarity, nowadays, ever since Xan–

He breaks off the thought and spends the next few minutes in half-meditation.

And all too soon, Ali Alann ushers him into the crèche's sleep chamber, where huge blue-grey eyes stare expressively at him.

As he opens his mouth to speak, a small part of Qui-Gon grieves for this boy who will never do the same, and fears for himself, for pity is a path to attachment, and attachment the path to Dark.

(:~:)

**I know, I know. I'm evil to leave you there. I just wanted to get this up and some opinions on whether you all think this is worth pursuing as a long epic story. I've done mid-length stories before of about twenty chapters, but I want to go above an beyond that here. Tell me what you all think! Obi-angst, fluff and Daddy!Qui to follow! MUAHAHAHA!**


	2. The Council Meddles in the Rain

**This chapter practically wrote itself. I would have posted it quicker, but I had to finish up some writing for another fandom I'm writing for. Scarily enough, I think I might have some bizzare connection to Yoda or something. I was practically cackling as I wrote all his lines. Conversely, I giggled when I wrote Mace Windu's. I love them both. Do tell me what you all think! A huge thank you to everyone who followed and favourite!**

**Now, on to the chapter – in which we see a double-layered contest of wits, all-around snark, and a tentative start to a very important relationship.**

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**Guest 3: Obi-Wan eternally strives for perfection, yes. I'm planning delicious things with his relationships and his development as a character. I hope you find this chapter fulfilling. Thanks so much for giving your opinion!**

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**(:~:)**

Obi-Wan doesn't quite know what to make of Master Qui-Gon Jinn.

His Force-presence certainly identifies him as a Master. It is anchored into the very air around him, wrapped in currents about each movement like the famed Aurora Borealis, visible in the northern reaches of Hoth and magic to a young Initiate's imagination. The Living Force practically _breathes_ in him; the anchor is not an unmovable one, but one melded into the flowing rivulets of the Force so well that it flows and adapts according to its tiniest shifts. Obi-Wan regards Qui-Gon sceptically, though, when he senses just an undercurrent of _mischief_ under that folded masterpiece of calm, control and lack of emotion that is the typical Jedi Master.

Obi-Wan sincerely hopes that Master Jinn isn't like Master Even Piell. The temple would certainly fall should such a travesty occur. There simply wouldn't be enough _space_ to contain that much snark.

"Focus, young one."

Obi-Wan snaps out of his observation with painful abruptness. A tilt of his head in apology, and Master Jinn resumes his question, apparently not caring that his large form is stuffed in a half crouch on a child-sized bunk.

Actually, Qui-Gon only has a vague idea of what he's doing, but is trusting his brain to deal with the rest. "Should you become a Knight, what would be your chosen area of expertise?"

With a start, he realises he has fallen unconsciously to the tone and speech pattern he uses in his diplomatic missions, cool and polite, but detached just enough to hide his true prowess at politics. He very nearly berates himself for it. This is a _twelve-year-old_ child he is speaking to, for Force's sake.

Obi-Wan's clear grey-blue eyes narrow in contemplation. His fingers grip his stylus carefully, and a line of neat Basic letters dart into being on the textured surface of the sheet of hair-thin flimsy on his lap. Qui-Gon does not venture to find something else to occupy his gaze with as he watches Obi-Wan write; he has been in far too many seemingly awkward situations for the actual atmosphere to emerge. He simply waits, and makes his patience the gentle breaths of non-entity between one weaponless velocity movement and the next.

The sheet of flimsy is extended towards him, accompanied by a slight bow of the head.

Qui-Gon is somewhat surprised to feel the well-worn texture of the flimsy – it almost feels like parchment, the surface on which a few treasured ancient texts are written, hidden in the Archives. _The boy must use this daily,_ Qui-Gon realises. Only after years of writing and washing clean and then writing again can the once-smooth acrylic surface be so pitted and scarred.

A single line, etched in ebony ink: _The Jedi are the crystal of the Force._

Qui-Gon cannot help raising an eyebrow in amusement. There is an undercurrent of humour there – quoting lines from one of the core teachings of the Code right back a Jedi Master! And the answer itself is cryptic. _Does he mean he intends to serve the Force as a blade does a Jedi, or that the future is unclear and he intends to focus on the present, as a 'saber crystal focuses the beam?_

He glances up from his pondering to find a grin tugging at the corner of Kenobi's lips. Qui-Gon blinks at the sudden flash of regret; this boy would have done _very_ well as his padawan, indeed. If that answer had been spoken aloud at, say, an Alderaanian opera house, there would be no doubt that whichever core-world upper-class sentinent the words were directed to would instantly be struck with uncomprehending awe.

But Qui-Gon is not a fat politician with a tendency to awe-struck gaping.

"I see your tongue needs some pruning," Qui-Gon chuckles. At the spike of heightened emotion in the Force, he winces, realising his mistake. He ploughs on, nevertheless; experience has taught him not to dwell on accidental insult in delicate conversations. "Have you ever considered the diplomatic corps?" he ventures, wary of Obi-Wan's reaction.

The flimsy passes from rough, calloused hands to yet-unblemished ones, and the stylus dances across the surface like a lightsaber's phosphorescent trails. But the acrylic sheet is _pushed_ into Qui-Gon's hands this time, followed by a now almost imperceptible dip of the head.

Again, teachings paraphrased into a blunt line of unforgiving ink: _A Jedi does not strive for an unobtainable victory._

The flimsiplast rustles as Qui-Gon's grip tightens on the weak material. It is astonishing how the two lines are written by the same hand, one below the other, with almost impeccable handwriting, and yet convey as much in tone and shape of words as speech. And they say nothing plainly of Obi-Wan's true opinion. The seemingly innocent words _infer_ without stating; a negotiator's pre-emptive strikes, skilfully concealed as parries.

_Although,_ Qui-Gon considers amusedly, _he is probably blissfully unaware of this._

The flimsy is handed back to its owner; Qui-Gon does not miss how it is neatly, almost reverently folded. That particular piece of flimsy has been Obi-Wan's voice for years, then.

"Well met and well spoken, Initiate Kenobi," Qui-Gon says, formally, as he rises from the bunk.

Obi-Wan scrambles to his feet, apparently surprised at Qui-Gon's sudden desire to leave. He conceals his confusion with a deep bow, and a nod. _Likewise, Master Jinn._

It is arguable who is brooding more than the other as the Qui-Gon takes his leave – the master, or the initiate.

(:~:)

It is night over this hemisphere of Coruscant, deepest sable mantling bleached white jewels in the silver durasteel hair of the planet-city below. The night cycle reaches its zenith, and rain falls, both sudden and long-expected. Sudden, for in one moment the air is choked with exhaust fumes and the thriving cocktail of scents that make up the diverse selection of species, and in the next, the frozen deluge of stored liquid cascades down spires and walkways, liquid diamond on solid crystal. Long-expected, for in the beating heart of the Galactic Republic, air and and weather systems are controlled, and this rainstorm scheduled a week in advance.

Water fills the first few hundred levels with mud and grime, washing secrets down, down, into Coruscant's heart of hearts, purging the clearer air above of exhaust and scent and acid and deathsticks. Inhabitants scurry for cover, late-night air traffic slows to an infant crawl. Rain falls on the shoulders of the stone sentinels guarding the grand entrance to the Jedi Temple, chilling their dark forms, and above, leaving the five spires of the Jedi Temple gleaming silver-white.

The Force trickles into a torrent along with the rain.

A solitary flicker of luminance blossoms into being in the mid-level residential wing.

It takes two cups of very strong Karlini tea to warm Qui-Gon's blood enough for him to sit back with a sigh and contemplate the event that jarred him from his slumber.

He had just experienced what could either be the smallest or the most significant vision of his life. S_mall_, of course, meaning pathetically infinitesimal by other Jedi's standards – even the visions of those linked most strongly to the Living Force usually surpass _two words._

Qui-Gon's first vision in ten years consists all of a single phrase: _"Yes, Master."_ The voice was not his own. It had been musical, quiet, and somehow young – not in age or pitch, but a certain timbre. It conveys experience, but a voice seldom used; like the clear air of Ilum, so fresh that it has never been breathed by another sentient before.

Visions come to him so rarely that he has learnt that when they do, they are more likely than not pivotal in his life. Unfortunately, the words of this vision are repeated hundreds of times daily in the halls of the temple, from initiate to padawan to master.

_Well, this is exceedingly helpful,_ Qui-Gon muses wryly, his usual wit degenerated into sarcasm by the late hour. He brushes aside the notion that he has just in affect cursed the Force. Still…Master Yoda would not take lightly to an intrusion at this hour of night – in fact, Qui-Gon highly doubts that anything less than a full-scale invasion of the Temple could rouse him. And _that_ could surely never occur, not in a hundred lifetimes.

His comlink gives an irritating beep as it barges into his thoughts with all the restraint of an unwired astromech. Some pitful padawan manning the night-shift communication desks has sent him council summons for the morning.

_Sithspit._

With a sigh, Qui-Gon contemplates returning to his sleep pallet, but decides against it. He really shouldn't have chosen Karlini tea; it was brewed in an effort to wake himself up enough to analyse his vision, but the stimulant has also served a dual, if unwelcome service of rendering him unable to settle his thoughts.

In an effort to occupy his troubled mind, he pulls out the holo-book of Obi-Wan's homework assignments that Master Ali Alann gave him a few hours previous. Choosing a random subject, he flicks open the document and idly begins to read.

Obi-Wan's writing is earnest, if not bluntly so: '_Negotiation is arguably the most important of skills a Jedi can possess. It can lead to conflict, and yet equally could end war. Aggressive action must only be taken when there is no other course to follow, or there is a danger of overconfidence. Many masters favour this view, the forefront of whom is Master Vodo-Siosk Baas, who distinguished himself before and during the Old Sith Wars. However, there are some instances in which this argument at first does not seem to be correct, an example of which is the pirate blockade of the Mandalorian Road in the Hydian hyperspace route a decade and a half ago.'_

Qui-Gon chokes on a mouthful of tea. _Of all the case studies…_ Releasing the resulting small amount of irritation into the Force takes more effort than it should, due to the following lines.

'_The unnamed Jedi Master sent to negotiate peace between the government of New Mandalore and the offending party was explicitly ordered only to oversee the drawing up of terms and demands. New Mandalore specifically requested minimal military intervention in accordance to their pacifist beliefs. This Jedi Master instead chose to lead a small contingent of off-worlders in a raid of the main pirate spacecraft, holding the captain hostage until their representatives agreed to soften the terms of the treaty. The off-worlders were later given rewards by the Mandalorian government._

'_While this particular course of action prevented the possible crippling of Mandalorian economy, it also carried the immense risk of loss of life on a grand scale, and the violation of key political beliefs of the inhabitants of New Mandalore. There is a very real possibility this could have led to conflict with other political groups. The Jedi Master may have achieved victory, but victory through negotiation would not have caused the risks that aggression did. I can only conclude that this master's method of 'aggressive negotiation' is a rather fortunate victory among many other instances that would have ended in failure.'_

Qui-Gon reaches the end of the paragraph and is for a moment struck speechless. That particular mission had been his first as a Jedi Master, and the council had informed him that they would place a report of it in the Archives as a record of disobedience. In all, he had thought he had done rather well. Mandalore had been minimally affected by the crisis and he had only acted out of compassion. Mace had even joked afterwards that it fit in with his love for pathetic life forms perfectly. With this, Obi-Wan had taken his actions and all but dissected them with a voice of calm reason.

A chuckle escapes Qui-Gon. _ Rascal._

He reaches into the Force, only to find it clouded and unforgiving, like the slick, tepid pools of water that are all that remain of the Coruscanti rain.

Of course, this does not necessarily mean that Qui-Gon will be reverse his opinion about taking a padawan any time soon.

(:~:)

His opinion is vigorously encouraged to _adapt_ in his session with the council the next morning.

"Taken an interest in an initiate, we hear." Yoda's sly tone should be illegal for this early in the morning.

"Yes, master." Qui-Gon readily admits, exuding easy calm.

Mace Windu's features take on an expression of surprise for the merest moment. "You wish to take this initiate as your padawan, then?"

Amusement leaks into the Force. "You misunderstand, masters. I was simply intrigued by his ability to deal with his indisposition to speech."

Yoda's green-striped eyes narrow perceptively. "Misunderstand, we do not."

"With all due respect, Master Yoda–"

"Hmmph, yes! Respect, we are due!" Yoda growls, in that concoction of amusement and firmness that only he can achieve.

Qui-Gon defers with a bow of the head.

"Master Jinn," Plo Koon breaks in, his head tresses swinging as he leans forward. "The previous time you came before us, the council _strongly_ advised you to take a padawan. Naturally, the choice is yours, as the Force wills. However, you must decide, and soon. It ill becomes a Jedi Master to wallow in indecision."

Qui-Gon allows the barb to slide past him, and replies genially. "Of course. As I said so before," – a sly counterstrike – "I have made my decision. I will not take another padawan."

"Reasons, have you, for this choice?" Yoda has retreated into an inscrutable gaze.

Measured, _calm._ "I have observed initiates of the appropriate age, as you suggested. And I have found none that have the aptitude for the rigors of peacemaking and negotiation."

Yoda's voice whips into reprimand. "Then lie to yourself, you do. Not _intelligent_ enough, is young Kenobi?"

Qui-Gon does not hide his thunderous frown this time. "The ability to speak does not make one intelligent. Several species are testament to that."

A throaty chuckle. Success laces each of Yoda's next words. "Then admit Obi-Wan is ready to be a padawan, you do."

"Yes," Qui-Gon snaps. He catches himself. "But not ready to be _my_ padawan."

Mace Windu latches on smoothly, sharp as a Vaapad blow. "Then we have proof here that the problem lies not with the initiates, but _you._"

Anger threatens to overwhelm Qui-Gon's mental shields. He stares mutely at his friend, cerulean eyes clashing against dark brown like a storm swell against a cliff face. For a moment, the wave teeters on its crest, but the cliff is too steep and resentment insufficient fuel for the storm. Emotion crashes into the Force like waves on the shore, then are contained and held back by solid dams of pure will.

"What does the council recommend?" Qui-Gon grinds out grudgingly, breaking the Korun master's gaze and turning to Yoda. Mace releases a long breath, and the entire council palpably relaxes.

Yoda sighs. "Mission we have for you."

Surprise spills into the Force like coloured ink. "Yes?"

"Deemed ready to construct their first lightsaber, a group of younglings are. Young padawans and old initiates. Young all the same. Take them to Ilum, you will, and supervise their collection of crystals."

_Babysitting._ So this was all the council could come up with as punishment. "Thank you, masters," Qui-Gon murmurs, bowing deeply. It is worth the appearance of submission to escape the tedium of further conversation. "I will do as you command."

"See that you do," Mace Windu counters. Qui-Gon should have known Mace would not allow him the last word.

A nod, another sweeping bow, and then Qui-Gon is in the hallway beyond, feeling the council's gazes bore into his retreating back.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon, rather predictably, is brooding up a storm when the door-chime announces the presence of Master Tahl Uvain. He waves the door open with a forced smile, and she stalks in brusquely, hands occupied with a large containter of steaming herbed nerf stew.

"Tahl, how was your–"

"You're brooding again." The Pot – as they call the tub in which they bring food for their weekly dinners at each other's apartments – is slammed unceremoniously onto the table.

Qui-Gon surreptitiously slides a piece of cork under the metal container. The table is made of Felucian wood, a gift from an acquaintance many years ago, and the polished surface marks very, _very_ easily. "Yes," he ventures cautiously.

Green and gold striped eyes glare at him. "Don't tell me you're indulging your masochistic side again."

"There is no emotion, there is peace."

Tahl snorts. "Don't quote the code at me. Everyone knows we only use it to evade a question. It's a testament to parrot-learning."

Qui-Gon retorts just as shortly, amusement barely veiling his words. "Ah, but in negotiation, it is often used to–" He trails off, blinking as a profound revelation strikes him.

A furrow appears between Tahl's eyebrows. "Qui?"

Light chuckles, and a shake of the head. _"That manipulative little brat."_

"Excuse me?" Tahl's voice has now taken on the dangerous tone of a Consular seeking answers, and not getting them when she should.

Qui-Gon cannot help but smile as he turns back to her. "I met a rather interesting initiate yesterday evening. He acted as if he did not know me, and only answered my questions with strict lines of the Code. I thought he was being self-depreciatory, but he must have wanted to gauge my reaction to find the reasons for my sudden interest in him." It all makes sense – the deference, the airs of respect, when all along, Obi-Wan must have known that the 'unnamed Jedi Master' of his referenced case study was Qui-Gon. He barks a laugh. "He tried to outwit _me,_ and it backfired spectacularly. It's as I thought - he still has much to learn."

Tahl stares at him for a moment, then swats him on the arm amiably. "I'll expect you to introduce me to your padawan properly when you take him."

"I never said–"

"You might as well have. Let's eat."

The day had been a strange series of rare losses. Qui-Gon brushes these and their loaded emotions aside, releases their fading echoes into the Force, and settles to a dinner with one of his oldest and dearest friends, finding solace in good food and pleasant company. Tahl makes sure to leave him with two parting gifts: the washing-up and a reminder to cook something worthwhile for their next meeting, scheduled for the following week in Tahl's quarters.

Qui-Gon sets to cleaning The Pot with meditative silence.

(:~:)

The ordered chaos in the southern hangar of the Jedi Temple tends more heavily towards chaos this particular morning. Qui-Gon glances at the orderly line of two initiates and three padawans, and hefts a holo-record in his hands with a sigh. "I am Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. I know those of you who are padawans wish that your masters could be here, but the council has assigned them individual missions, so I will be supervising you." he says quietly. The Force is disturbed in a side-corridor hidden from their sight around a corner, and Qui-Gon brushes the feeling of foreboding aside with difficulty.

"Step forward and state your name and age."

A lanky Dressalian boy moves toward Qui-Gon with the gangly un-grace of growing limbs. He bows. "Initiate Reeft Shinren. Twelve."

The next in line is a Kiffar male. He is not old, but Qui-Gon could not call him a child. "Initiate-Padawan Quinlan Vos," he says shortly. He doesn't offer anything further.

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow, but moves on. Master Tholme had filled him in Quinlan's unique situation.

A voice breaks in, practically _roiling_ with excitment. "_Padawan_ Garen Muln. Thirteen." The stubby brown braid on one side of his face reveals that that rank has only very recently been earned. Garen smirks as Quinlan gives him a murderous look from beside him.

Qui-Gon finds himself already imagining what horrors the pair could bring to this mission.

"Padawan Luminara Unduli. Thirteen." The Mirialan's calm voice is a welcome break from the previous three. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Jinn." New tattoos stretch on her chin as she smiles graciously at him.

"Padawan Huei Tori." The male nautolan's smile is ridiculously reserved when compared to Knight Kit Fisto's. "Twelve."

Qui-Gon strikes each name off the list wearily, but pauses when one a quick scroll-down reveals one more. There, in the blank, inkless block-script of Republic Standard Basic, is the last name. _Obi-Wan Kenobi._

Qui-Gon sucks in a breath. _Mace, you wily gundark._

"Have any of you seen Initiate Kenobi this morning?" he asks, not without a trace of concern. From what he read of Obi-Wan last evening, the initiate is not one to be tardy.

Garen and Reeft glance at each other, hidden worry and uneasy understanding flitting across their faces.

Pattering footsteps race across durasteel, and Obi-Wan Kenobi comes to an undignified halt at the end of the line, his duffel of cold-weather gear in disarray. Qui-Gon opens his mouth to reprimand the boy, only to notice a purpling bruise on Obi-Wan's temple, barely hidden by tufts of hair smoothed messily over the blemish.

Obi-Wan sinks into a deep bow, cheeks flushing scarlet from exertion and embarrassment. He notices at least two of the group are looking at him expectantly, and embarrassment turns into shame.

Qui-Gon breaks in smoothly. "We're all present and accounted for, then. Board and store your bags, and assist in pre-flight checks. I will join you shortly."

The line of younglings file up the boarding ramp, Obi-Wan following dejectedly. As he brushes past Qui-Gon, a sudden flare of consciousness seems to connect the two of them, like a lamp-catch flung open, luminance cascading into the air.

And as quickly as the influx of light shines, it is gone. Obi-Wan continues up the ramp, apparently unaffected, and Qui-Gon just manages to stop himself from calling out afer him.

Qui-Gon turns toward the side hallway where he had felt the disturbance. The harsh lighting reveals the length of the corridor to be empty, save for a thick sock here, a headlamp there, cold weather gear flung to the floor. _Conflict _and _jealousy_ hangs in the air like a forgotten echo of a few minutes past.

He collects Obi-Wan's fallen possessions and turns back towards the ship. This has given him _much_ to meditate upon during the journey to Ilum.

(:~:)

**Foreshadowing, foreshadowing! There were numerous references to canonical phrases here, but one quote in particular from TPM which fits this story perfectly. Virtual cookies to those who can identify it! I'll post as soon as I can; if every imagining I got for this story was a vision from the Force, I would probably be the strongest Jedi of the Unifying Force in the history of the GFFA. Leave me your opinions, will you? Constructive reviews appreciated!**


	3. Tea and Ink

**Well met, everyone. As promised, here is the next chapter. I had initially wanted to post this sometime in the weekend, but reviews are addictive and I wrote this practically all in one go yesterday. Here, Qui-Gon seems to waver between being cold and caring. He hasn't quite decided what he wants to do with Obi-Wan yet. And I apologise in advance to whatever liberties I will take with Quinlan Vos's character. I don't own any of the comics with him in them so my take on his character is limited to other media. **

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**Guest 1:**** Good job in spotting the canonical phrase. Next time you review, put a penname in the box so I can refer to you, alright? I like to identify my readers individually. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Oh, and this chapter is from Qui's point of view, mostly. It worked, but I'll make sure to include Obi's view next chapter. Either way, sit back and enjoy.**

(:~:)

Hyperspace is _strange._ There is a semblance of motion, for streaks of light dart and meander in whorls and nettles of discolour past the ship's viewing windows. But there is no change in pressure or gravity, save for the steady thrum of the hyperdrive through metal and durasteel. Surely the ship _must_ be travelling forward; if not in space, then in the translucent state of non-being in between dimensions, the craft speck of dust fallen between the branches of the multiverse. Or perhaps they are the ones remaining still, while space itself roils around their bubble of calm, shifting and warping until their destination, still light-years away, finally settles beneath their unsteady feet, and they will have travelled from their starting position and yet _not._

That, it very well may be; for here, the Force is still. The music of the spheres is not _gone_, exactly – but it is as if the conductor has raised his baton and frozen there, and the whole song coalesced into one high, crystalline note, hung upon a fragile thread of time and space. The Force is here. It always has, and always will be. But there is no Unifying or Living, Light or Dark; it is the _Force_. And that is all.

For once, Obi-Wan is glad he does not have a voice, for if he did, he is unsure whether or he would laugh or scream. Both would break him out of his meditation in an extremely uncivilised manner.

As it is, the tall Jedi Master kneeling beside him eases out of his own meditation and affixes him with an inquisitive gaze. Obi-Wan cannot see Master Jinn's scrutiny through his closed eyelids, but he _feels_ it nonetheless, an oxymoron of ice and fire as it washes over him like a cool hand on his forehead, gauging his temperature, bringing a question to the stinging bruise on his temple…

Obi-Wan shakes his head, eyes remaining closed. He senses rather than hears the soft rustle of fabric as the older Jedi brushes gentle fingers by the bruise and pours warmth from the Force into it, dulling the sharp pain into an ache. And then a hiss of compressed air as the door slides open, and retreating footsteps into the corridor.

Only then does Obi-Wan open his eyes to the grey world of the sleeping quarters, and realise that throughout that entire exchange, Qui-Gon had not said a word. The question itself had been asked, and answered, with the air still and the Force untapped – and the question is the key. Was it really as simple a query as '_Does this wound pain you?' _ Or was Qui-Gon asking another question all together?

_Master Jinn is hard to read._ He appears to waver between concern and distance, seeming to pull himself back when he realises the care in his actions.

The meditation cushion beneath him does nothing to quell the ache in his knees. With a start, Obi-Wan glances at the chrono. They had been meditating together for no less than _three hours_. Had he really been lost in the Force for so long? The other cushions arranged neatly in a circle are long since empty, the other initiates and padawans gone to shipboard duties. Obi-Wan unfolds himself and stretches his aching legs, forcing himself to flip a few times as his spine declares its protest, and goes in quest of breakfast.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon is well aware of the curious glances the younger generation throw his way as he settles his tray of food down in the ship's tiny galley. Garen Muln is the only one absent, being the youngling most unlikely to crash the ship on autopilot, and so delegated temporary cockpit duty. Luminara Unduli eats slowly, her olive nose wrinkled slightly in distaste at Reeft Shinren, who is shovelling food into his mouth while simultaneously stealing bits of tuber from Quinlan Vos's plate. Quinlan's eyebrows are beetled into a frown, but of annoyance rather than anger. Huei Tori sits ramrod-straight, nodding respectfully to Qui-Gon as he enters. Qui-Gon represses a momentary flash of annoyance. Everything about this Nautolan padawan is perfect, from the incline of his head to the manner in which he eats. This is no _maverick,_ negotiator, or archivist. This is the perfect reserved calm of the Jedi Padawan, one that many a master would gladly teach.

No. Not perfect. What could be taught to a perfect padawan?

Qui-Gon cuts off the thought, instead pitching his voice louder to reach all the younglings clustered around the table. "All of you did well in meditation this morning," he says. "But Initiate Kenobi immersed himself in the Force far more deeply than any of you. You would do well to learn from his example."

"Yes, Master Jinn," they chorus.

He suppresses a wince. Intrigue is still there, in the high, yet unbroken timbre of their voices. Even _children_ have noticed his supposed partiality to Obi-Wan.

As he sets to his unappetizing breakfast of rations, Qui-Gon muses over whether he should have said the word with Obi-Wan present. Praise does not fall lightly from his lips, but he cannot help but wonder whether Obi-Wan has many chances to hear heartfelt praise at all.

By and by, Reeft takes his leave, offering a bow at Qui-Gon and muttering something about final checks on his 'saber design. Huei rises silently from his obsessively clean plates and bows low, murmuring some nicety or the other, before pivoting tournament-style and moving off. His dark blue head-tresses sway gently after him, bound by a single stripe of unforgiving brown leather. Unreadable. Blank.

He would make an _excellent_ Sentinel, that one. Qui-Gon can almost hear his former Master's voice chuckling darkly. Dooku is yet another reason Qui-Gon cannot bear to take another apprentice.

Obi-Wan's entrance is so silent that it is only a whisper of the Force against Qui-Gon's shields that causes him to glance up. Obi-Wan grins hesitantly at him, and brings a hand up to the faded mark on his temple before bowing deeply. To the remaining three others in the room, there is nothing out of the ordinary in the motion, but Qui-Gon finds himself smiling back. "Your gratitude is appreciated," Qui-Gon returns.

Obi-Wan's ears are slightly pink as he fills a tray for himself and settles in the wide expanse of bench between Quinlan and Luminara. Quinlan flicks a few fingers in his direction, and offers no more recognition. Luminara greets him quietly, and he nods back quickly, turning to his food in an effort not to incite further interest.

Qui-Gon frowns as he picks through his uninteresting food mash. Obi-Wan's practice of making himself unnoticeable must be an instinctive method of self-preservation. By focusing on other trivial matters, Obi-Wan finds excuse for his silence, and fades into the background. All good qualities for an infiltration mission, but not if it is a permanent habit. Qui-Gon decides to speak to him later.

Unfortunately, Padawan Luminara beats him to it.

"Obi-Wan, right? I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to talk to you yesterday." Luminara's voice is gentle, unassuming – perhaps precisely because she does not have a vital piece of knowledge that is key to this conversation. "There's no need to be so withdrawn. We're all Jedi here."

Obi-Wan sets down his muja juice with a hollow _thud_ and nods in acknowledgement. A few feet away, Quinlan slowly lowers his glass, too. Conflicting emotions are spreading across his features. He is no doubt trying to balance his desire to remain uninvolved with the need to warn Luminara.

Luminara's features spread into a wide grin. "You're quiet, aren't you? My master told me to try to meet more Jedi on this mission, because I could work with all of you in future missions. Aren't you glad we'll be constructing our lighsabers soon? " When Obi-Wan does not answer beyond another nod and a small smile, the enthusiasm begins to slip off her face. "Well…what lightsaber designs are you considering using?"

With a slightly relieved expression, Obi-Wan reaches into his tunic and withdraws a battered holopad, fingers skimming expertly over the surface. The next moment, a hologram shimmers to life, the blued lines flickering every now and then, but the image so detailed and intricate that Luminara lets out a gasp of wonder. "This is beautiful!" she exclaims. "It's traditional, but different in little ways – what inspired these etched lines here?"

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, then closes it. Luminara's brow furrows with confusion as his hand reaches within his tunic once again and emerges with his square sheet of worn flimsy.

Qui-Gon's hand twitches on his fork, but something keeps him rooted in his seat, a desire to see the situation played out. He does not see the line Obi-Wan writes, but Luminara's answer is spoken clearly enough for Qui-Gon to wince inwardly. "Oh, of course, that makes sense. Lightsaber design has varied over the years. But why didn't you just say it out loud? I'm not much to be afraid of, am I?"

The hand with which Obi-Wan grips the stylus trembles slightly. Qui-Gon begins to stand; he cannot, _will_ not allow the boy to write what he so obviously considers to be shameful. He will not let Obi-Wan demean himself so, to draw those self-damning words across the flimsy in that beautiful, calm script that hides so much of what he really feels.

But he is beaten to it a second time. By Quinlan Vos.

"Enough!" The Kiffar stands up sharply, upsetting his glass. Muja juice pours unhindered over the perfect mirror of the steel table, vicious purple liquid spreading like a bruise. "Can't you tell?" he hisses at a wide-eyed Luminara. "You come on this mission, all _perfect_ and _polite_, and speak of 'getting to know fellow Jedi better', putting on fancy language and airs, when you can't even tell that Obi-Wan is _mute?"_

The word crashes down on the four of them like the entire weight of the Force, crushing them, leaving Luminara speechless with horror, Obi-Wan's knuckles white where he clutches his stylus, and Qui-Gon cursing his lack of speed. There is nothing he can do now; the silence is deafening, thick and corrosive like the acidic mud of Dragobah, trapping them all in a quagmire, soiling clothes and faces, changing, _hurting_.

Qui-Gon washes it away with a tidal wave of stern reprimand. "_That,_" he says heavily, "is enough." Two paces forward, and a hand drops to the shaking shoulder of Luminara Unduli. "Padawan Unduli. Go meditate, center, and then review your assignments. You can do no more here."

Luminara bobs a bow to him, crouches in an almost-kowtow to Obi-Wan, and darts out of the room, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

"Vos," Qui-Gon growls, "Come with me." He does not glance at Obi-Wan as he stalks out, steering Quinlan before him. He does not think he can stomach the expression that must be on the boy's face right now.

Quinlan grunts as Qui-Gon forces him onto his knees, none too gently, onto a meditation cushion.

"I shouldn't have anything to say here," Qui-Gon begins. He knows his eyes must be twin daggers of blue ice, and he makes no effort to soften his gaze. "Speak for yourself."

"She didn't even realise what she was doing!" Quinlan exclaims, crossing his arms and half-rising out of his kneeling position. "I'm no friend of Obi-Wan, but she was presenting a fine example of her Force-forsaken _propriety_ and _poise_."

Qui-Gon attempts to lower his voice. "And _you_ were?"

A sarcastic snort. "I'm better. I don't even _pretend_ to go for anything like _eloquence_."

A short silence, only broken by Quinlan's heavy breathing after such an outburst. Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow, and the Kiffar padawan raises his eyes to meet Qui-Gon's gaze.

Quinlan flinches.

He folds himself down, bowing so his head touches the floor. "I'm sorry, my master. I shouldn't have spoken out like that. Forgive me."

"I will have to have a word with Master Tholme when we return," Qui-Gon says curtly. "You would do well to reflect upon your actions. They were well-intentioned, but did more harm than good."

It is a testament to Master Tholme's years of service when Quinlan mutters grudgingly, "Yes, Master Jinn."

Qui-Gon spares him a piercing stare before turning and sweeping back towards the galley. His pace increases perceptibly, and his cloak billows behind him like a swelling storm front as he paces down the unforgiving durasteel. He pauses at the door, testing the Force.

There is nothing. No sorrow, shame, nor fear. The Force shimmers with the void.

Steeling himself, Qui-Gon turns the corner.

Obi-Wan faces the opposite wall, a vacuum in the Force, grey mental shields slippery and strong. The only action that belies his emotion is his stylus flying across the flimsy before him.

_Little one._ The thought pops into his mind before he can stop himself – and star's end, he has no idea why. Perhaps because it seems to suit the tiny form of the boy, sat curled with his knees to his chest as he pours out his heart into ink. "Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says quietly. A sudden thought strikes him that this is the first time he as said Obi-Wan's first name out loud, and with it, comes a strange sensation in his mind. An _awareness_ of some sort.

Instead of moving towards that head of spiky golden-brown hair, Qui-Gon withdraws a small, fragrant packet from within his robes and strides towards the narrow counter. A sudden pause in the stylus's scratching accompanies his movement, but he pretends not to notice as he sets water to boil. Two chipped shipboard mugs will have to suffice for porcelain, but it does not matter; the water is boiled and folded leaves crushed into the steaming waterfalls, curls of opalescent fragrant steam curling off the green surface.

Moving slowly, so as not to startle Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon slides onto the bench, pushing one mug of tea towards him. Obi-Wan does not raise his head, but finishes his last stylus-stroke with a flourish that might have been a violent stab seen under different circumstances. The flimsy crinkles as it slides across the polished surface of the table to come to a rest beneath Qui-Gon's hands.

"Drink," Qui-Gon says, turning the flimsy over without looking at it. "It's Sapir tea. When you have calmed yourself, we will look at what you have wrought together."

Obi-Wan raises his head, eyes red-rimmed. Small hands reach across the table and seek the baking warmth of the mug. He raises it to his lips and swallows, and a small, soundless gasp escapes him as the heat worms its way down his throat and into his stomach, warming his chest with a gentle luminance. A gulp, larger this time, and tears of pain comes to his eyes at the scalding mouthful.

"Not quite like that," Qui-Gon says humouredly. "You'll burn yourself. Try inhaling before you sip."

Obi-Wan does as he is told and finds the scented steam sweet and lingering, like a wildflower seed pressed and dried, only to be watered again, its scent spreading like the petals of the blossom. Unbidden, a smile comes to his lips, and his racing heart calms. A slow, indulgent sip, and sweetness floods his tongue, with a pleasant note of bitterness afterwards. Light flickers, and the Force trickles into him like a stream into a desert.

"Better," Qui-Gon murmurs as he turns to his own tea.

Obi-Wan's Force presence grows steadily brighter, and Qui-Gon pauses as he senses an echo of music thrum between them like sound dancing along a wire. It is strangely familiar and comforting – but just as it did on the boarding ramp back on Coruscant, the feeling snaps and withers away abruptly.

Filing this event away for later analysis, Qui-Gon turns over the flimsy. And reins in his reaction with difficulty.

Etched exquisitely in sable ink is a intricately designed lightsaber hilt, its two-handed grip of obsidian and shining silver, the pommel a half-sphere, like a dark half-moon at the end of a silver-lined pathway. There is no fanciful flair, no crossguards or curved metal. It is a weapon, deadly in its purpose. And yet it will be beautiful, for its wielder will dance with it until the crystal, the blade, and the Jedi are one pulsing heart.

Qui-Gon turns from the drawing to find Obi-Wan staring at him questioningly. A small snort escapes the older Jedi. "You like using flimsy more than a holo-pad, don't you?" he comments.

Obi-Wan nods. He taps his stylus, the lightsaber drawing, and then his chest, shrugging embarrassedly as he does so, but Qui-Gon understands anyway. Writing by hand is like using a 'saber – _The crystal is the heart of the blade, the heart is the crystal of the Jedi_ – it is a truer form of expression then the blank words of a holo-pad.

On a whim, Qui-Gon unclips his lightsaber from his belt and holds it out towards the Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan's eyes grow impossibly wide, and he shakes his head vigorously, raising his hands in consternation. But Qui-Gon is not to be denied. The heavy hilt of the 'saber passes from strong, callused hands to small, ink-stained ones. Obi-Wan holds it almost reverently.

"I took my design from much the same influence as yours: the battlemasters of old," Qui-Gon begins, pitching his voice into the distinctive lilt of teaching. "Activator. Controllers. Radiator grooves." His finger touches each component respectively, with ease that proves his intimate knowledge of the weapon. It has been with him for decades, and seen as much battle as he has. He knows its weight, its feel, and the song it plays when it is activated, better than he knows himself. "I worked these ridges into the grip for decoration and practicality. They also serve the purpose of protecting the crystal." He notices with no little amusement that Obi-Wan is hanging onto his very word. "You see this metal overlay?" Qui-Gon murmurs. Obi-Wan nods emphatically, eyes shining. Qui-Gon tries not to smile as he continues. "I was inspired by the code. The lightsaber should flow like the Force – I imagined the metal pooling around the 'saber, cocooning it with the Force."

Obi-Wan's expression has long since changed from reverent to awestruck. Qui-Gon receives his lightsaber back with a twinkle in his own gaze. Obi-Wan had handled the weapon as if it were made of glass. "Could you tell me about your own designs?"

Obi-Wan beams a smile as his stylus once more flashes forth, arrows and writing darting about the page, waxing eloquent about his future 'saber. Qui-Gon misses the first few lines entirely, as transfixed as he is with Obi-Wan's grin. He has not seen joy this pure and undiluted for a long time. Feemor had once smiled like this; but knighthood had taken him from Qui-Gon's side. Xanatos… he had been blind to it, but there was always a slick secrecy in his smirks, pride and darkness hiding behind a carefree expression. But when Obi-Wan smiles, it is as if he takes all the laughter he knows he cannot produce, focuses it, and flashes pure light from his features.

If a lightsaber could be made of joy, Obi-Wan's smile would come very close to being like one.

As the morning wears on, Qui-Gon feels a familiar feeling settle into his heart, but it is a sensation so long unfelt that he needs a moment to recognise it: the satisfaction of a lesson well taught. Nostalgia washes against his shields, tugs at his control. But by the time he excuses himself to check on the cockpit, Qui-Gon does not begrudge himself a grin.

(:~:)

It is only when the shipboard computer announces their imminent drop out of hyperspace above Ilum does Qui-Gon catch himself. _What is he doing?_ He had sworn to himself since that broken day on Telos IV that he would never take another Padawan. The success of seeing Feemor through to knighthood was wholly eclipsed by his failure in seeing the Dark infect Xanatos, whom he raised from childhood. The satire does not escape him; why should his padawan of two years succeed, while his padawan of six years fall? Qui-Gon sighs as he dismisses Garen Muln from the cockpit. He has never been a good Master, never worthy of his rank and title. That farce in the galley today was a result of his lack of intervention as much as Padawan Unduli's insensitivity.

The ship drops out of hyperspace with a soundless lurch, mirroring the sudden echoing emptiness of his stomach. Stars stream and coalesce into twinkling diamonds, rivers of nebulae and comet-streaks. And with it, the Living Force flows anew, flowing through his tired mind, soothing, calm. Qui-Gon searches this current for an answer, _any_ answer, to a question that he cannot define fully.

The ice-blue world of Ilum hovers ahead, a beacon in the Force, calling all Force-sensitives, Jedi or not, to the treasures it holds in its vaults. Qui-Gon reaches forward, flicks an activation switch, and prepares to bring down the ship. The Force has given him no clear answer – but the lulling melody of the crystals below the ice draws him in. Either way, Ilum is his immediate future, and he must face it, as the Living Force compels him to at present.

He only hopes Obi-Wan can face it as well.

(:~:)

**Did you all like the bit about tea? I was drinking an exquisite mug of special green tea when I was writing that scene, and it all just sort of flowed from there. I admit I could rival Qui-Gon in being a tea nut. Well. Next chapter will be Ilum. I've got a couple things planned for that. Tell me what you think of this chapter. I'm trying to make sure their bond progresses, but not too abruptly – something will happen next chapter to change that. See you all then.**


	4. The Way of the Hawk-Bat

**Greetings, my most revered Knights and Masters. I had intended this chapter for Saturday, but a martial-arts competition took up much of the last few days. I wrote this chapter insanely quickly – probably within three or so hours. I hope this satisfies all. I'm honestly extremely gratified with the response to this fic. To all who reviewed, followed, and favourited, you have my gratitude.**

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**newmexico: Yay teaching mode! Of course I'll keep updating. This story writes so easily for me. Thanks for reviewing!**

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**Queen Yoda: This is one of the best reviews I've ever had. You've put in the perfect mix of encouragement, praise and personalities. Now I'm sounding like I'm reviewing your review, but don't doubt that I'm very grateful. Ilum's cave of fears is just beginning here… and I sort of freaked myself out a little when writing it. Do tell me what you think!**

**Fanfic Lurker: Thanks for reviewing! I'm so relieved you think the pacing is good – I don't want to rush things, but I tend to try to fit a lot in, so I'm trying to balance the two.**

**Ilum is creepy. Here we go with the chapter.**

**(:~:)**

The Jedi enclave on Ilum stands breathtakingly tall, a hollow sentinel of sapphire ice, unforgiving but _elegant_ in its sharp angles and turreted majesty. Yet there is something deadly about the manner in which the white mid-morning light scatters awry over its white-azure walls. Light does not cling to this temple within its shining borders; rather, it seems to hesitate for the briefest moments at the muffled sable of casements and doors, a few solitary, braver motes venturing to search the yawning mouth of the main entryway, only to be swallowed whole by the insatiable darkness. Silence reigns. Not the hushed quiet of snow, but an awed, fearful lack of sound. The enclave is beautiful, yes. But only because light rebounds off its surface and flees, not daring to search its fettered depths.

In more ways than one, Ilum is rather_ cold._

Obi-Wan gives himself a mental cuff on the ear for thinking the absolutely obvious. With such an _unspecified_ word, no less! The frigid temperature could might as well have frozen his nerve-endings, rendering his usually over-active brain into a pile of soggy mush. Muffled curses drift back at him from where Quinlan slogs through waist-high snow, followed doggedly by the hunched forms of Reeft, Garen, Luminara and Huei. The five of them, and Obi-Wan himself, are so wrapped up in winter gear that to the casual observer, they would not be specimens of five separate species but rather a forlorn line of baby gorgodons. For all their years of Jedi training, they present a very sorry sight.

Of course, Qui-Gon is exclusively exempted from this indignity.

The Jedi Master circles the six younglings like a watchful hawk-bat, the green glow of his lightsaber luminous in the heavy flurries of snowfall. There is no thick coat around him, or spiked boots on his feet, but his supple nerf-hide boots move with quick, sure steps over the thick layer of white, soundless. His shameless, liberal and very skilled application of the Force saves him from having to wade through white sludge like the younger ones. His boots do not even mark the snow.

Qui-Gon completes the last of his circles, crouching and placing a hand on Quinlan's shoulder to steady him. The line of Initiates and Padawans stumble to a clumsy halt. "We're almost at the entrance!" Qui-Gon calls back at the shivering figures, voice somehow still clear over the rising wind. A note of warning creeps into his voice. "Stay behind me!"

As the ominous sable of the main entryway blots out the sky, Obi-Wan grits his teeth and shuffles after the others. He doesn't quite think it's fair that Qui-Gon could warm himself with the Force and Obi-Wan has not yet learned to do so. And _half-dancing_ across the snow like that! Master Alann would have given Obi-Wan a sound ticking off for exuberance if he had done anything remotely similar.

But a chilling howl rises out of the bleached ridges behind him, and Obi-Wan's overactive imagination manifests the sound into an Asharl Panther pack. It is this terrifying image, rather than an actual pack itself, that hurries his steps after the others.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon examines the clinging shadows of the entrance gallery as he shakes the heavy snow off his cloak. The flickering yellow lamps in the walls must be ancient, for the light does not so much illuminate the shadows as enlarge them, pooling them in tepid sable puddles about their feet, dripping down corners. The intricately carved ice ceiling echoes and groans overhead like an abandoned cathedral. In the entryway behind, icy stalagtites shiver in the wind, and rivulets of of agitation pour from the six Force signatures behind him. Qui-Gon sighs. _Children._

"I think my rear's frostbitten," Quinlan groans as he rubs his hide-covered buttocks, ignoring the filthy look Luminara shoots him over her shoulder.

"Why is the landing pad so far from here?" Reeft mutters the complaint as he tries to stamp feeling back into his frozen feet.

"It would be unfortunate if you had to find out," Qui-Gon answers promptly, eyes still flicking from alcove to doorway. Obi-Wan's fingers fall still on the straps of his pack as he notices Qui-Gon has not deactivated his lightsaber. His own hand twitches toward his training 'saber, and he sinks into a casual stance, gaze wandering away from his teammates to the endless caverns ahead.

Qui-Gon makes sure to hide the approval in the set of his shoulders as he continues his examination of the silent hall. Obi-Wan is the only one of the younglings who is aware of the danger lurking in the darker currents of the Force; the others are busy divesting themselves of packs and gloves.

Suddenly, Qui-Gon folds his large frame onto the floor, pressing an ear into the harsh stone. He straightens equally as abruptly, fiddling with the power setting on his lightsaber. The humming song of the emerald blade pitches higher as the blade blazes with new heat. "Initiate Shinren," he calls cheerfully to Reeft, "It seems the answer to your question is approaching with a remarkable speed from a three o'clock direction." Despite the amusement in his tone, his eyes have narrowed. The thick brown folds of his cloak fall into a heap by his feet.

Obi-Wan rips off his cumbersome gloves and his heavy coat as well, eyes wide. His numb fingers grip the hilt of his training 'saber tightly, uncaring that the icy metal bites into his knuckles. All talk and action ceases as every head turns to their right. In the resulting silence, the wind howls anew, throwing its cackling laughter against the walls, rooting the feet of initiate and padawan alike in place.

And ever so softly, down a side corridor, the muffled grunts, thudding pawfalls, and slavering breath of some unknown horror grows steadily louder.

"Ah," Qui-Gon comments, almost to himself. He paces forward unhurriedly, halting right in front of Garen, who is frozen, half in the act of pulling off his coat. "Training 'sabers out," Qui-Gon murmurs quietly. There is no urgency in his voice. No _emotion._ Only peace.

The _hiss-snap_ of five other blades bathe their angular faces with garish colours of yellow and blue, emitting a high, discordant buzzing. Throughout it all, Qui-Gon's 'saber glows a steady green, a deeper, richer melody.

"Stay behind me," Obi-Wan hears Qui-Gon murmur under his breath. The Jedi Master's voice is calm, collected, but there is a hardness to it Obi-Wan has not heard before. Not quite _uncivilised_, Obi-Wan muses, adrenaline slowing time into a crawl as he settles into the basic Shii-Cho stance. _Just…battle-ready_.

And then the monstrosity is upon them with no need for civility.

The full-grown gorgodon barrels into Qui-Gon's salute with fearsome speed, claws screeching agonising furrows into the stone floor, a thousand pounds of solid muscle and fur against a whiplash blade of plasma. Screams explode behind Qui-Gon as the others dive out of their way, watching the maelstrom of slashes and parries as claw meets 'saber in a spray of molten chitin. The gorgodon's roar of incensed pain forms a terrible clamourous duet with the whirring sphere of Qui-Gon's 'saber. Daggered fangs grind against each other as hot blood hisses against the frozen floor; then a howl of fury, and Qui-Gon finds himself darting into Ataru acrobatics to avoid the balls of sticky brown saliva hurting towards him in a binding rain.

Ataru is relentless, and this predator but another many-'sabered opponent; this is the battle of hawk-bat against gorgordon, agility against power, flight against stone. The hawk-bat does not fight alone – its young flutters about the gorgodon, their own claws less luminous, less sharp, but quick nonetheless. The gorgodon snarls as it bats at these nuisances, these ungrown young cubs to him. Some are more hawk-bat than others; one of the young, with a darker pelt than the rest, battles with fervor, his bright yellow claw flashing with his war-cries. Another – a female, the gorgodon senses – defends her brothers more than she attacks. Three other hatchlings seem to shift, the one who smells of fish striking like a predator rather than prey, and the other two alternating, protectors and warriors.

And the last one, the runt of the litter, perhaps, for his voice-box does not seem developed enough to yowl – he stays closest to the adult hawk-bat's side, an infant seeking to protect his sire, possibly. But a runt is a runt. And to a hunter such as the gorgodon, the weak are but food.

Obi-Wan utters a soundless cry as the gorgodon's thick tail slams into his chest, knocking the breath out of him and crunching into his ribs. Pain blossoms like a red flower under his skin, followed by the disorientating impact of the back of his head slamming into the stone floor. His 'saber rolls loose from his bruised hands.

The gorgodon reaches for him, but is hindered by a hot 'saber in his side.

Qui-Gon hisses a Huttese expletive as he realises he cannot keep track of all his charges in a melee such as this. He can identify four separate voices in the battle, but Obi-Wan is a fleeting shadow in his peripheral vision at the best of times. Qui-Gon's single focus is on the hulking predator he faces. In the three times he has been to Ilum, he has never faced a gorgodon quite so large – this could very well be an alpha male.

And then he catches sight of the small, rumpled form that is Obi-Wan, and leaps to intercept the clawed paw sliding towards the boy. Five training 'sabers halt by his side an instant later.

The gorgodon faces Qui-Gon and the remaining five with a leer of dirty white fangs, his long arms dragging along the ground, hard-muscled shoulders rippling. It opens its maw and howls its anger, its body a skulking silhouette framed by the wide mouth of the entrance and the snow beyond–

– And a crystalline peal, as the heavy stalactites overhead fall like lances, impaling the gorgodon with an unpleasant _crunch._

Amusement laces the Force like the violent scarlet of gorgodon blood on the pitted stone floor.

As one, Qui-Gon and the five others turn to stare incredulously at Obi-Wan, who smiles weakly as he props himself up on an elbow, one hand still outstretched to the ceiling above the entrance.

Qui-Gon's lightsaber snaps back into its sheath with a hollow hiss. "That was an…untraditional example of Force manipulation," he manages. Other speech eludes him.

Obi-Wan's smile turns into a smirk, then a wince as he tries to rise.

Garen is the first to his side, supporting Obi-Wan's head as he turns a rather interesting shade of green.

"Deep breaths, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says softly. His fingers move quickly as they undo the thick under-coat, tabards, and linen tunic. They pause when they reach bare skin.

A few feet away, Quinlan gives a low whistle. "Woah. That's a stinger."

"Go tend to our gear," Qui-Gon breaks in. "All of you." As the myriad of footsteps draw fainter, he retrieves his cloak and places it under Obi-Wan's head as a cushion. "Hmmm," Qui-Gon mutters, wincing inwardly as he examines the palette of colours that is Obi-Wan's lower chest. He places a cool hand against the side and pushes lightly. Obi-Wan's mouth opens in a gasp and he flings a glare up at him.

With supreme indifference, Qui-Gon continues his examination. "Bruised ribs," he states matter-of-factly. "They'll take a day or two to heal."

Obi-Wan's gaze turns from accusing to worried.

"Do not fret like an abandoned hatchling," Qui-Gon reprimands as he searches his belt pouch for valerian cream. "It is unbecoming of a Jedi." Gently, he smoothes pain-relieving cream on the bruises, applying warm Force-healing as he does so. A pause, and then he decides to be lenient. "This injury is insufficient to prevent you from retrieving a crystal," he murmurs. Qui-Gon carefully avoids Obi-Wan's gaze, but as he stows away the medical supplies, he makes the mistake of glancing up.

Two enormous grey-blue eyes bore into his very soul.

Qui-Gon all but tears his gaze away and snaps the boy's tunics tight. He allows himself a hidden groan. _That boy has the eyes of a snow-ruffled akk pup._ Why is it that just when he has decided to leave the folly of what happened on the ship behind, Obi-Wan goes and does something as underhanded as _this?_

_Negotiator._

The word shivers in his mind, dancing out of the Unifying Force like a 'saber blade ignited, and deactivated just as quickly.

As Qui-Gon returns to his other young charges, a stray thought wonders that should Obi-Wan not become a padawan, the Jedi Order would lose far more than the Living Force revealed.

(:~:)

The soft firelight casts rutted shadows over Obi-Wan's face as he curls carefully on his side. Ilum's night cycle is deep and long, longer than Coruscant's and far more beautiful. The chamber they had chosen is hidden in the topmost spire of the Ilum Temple, the floor and walls carved with frescoes of Jedi Masters who have long since joined the Force. The night sky wheels overhead around Aiedail, the north star of Ilum, a sable cloak sewn with diamonds and sapphires, the path of the Galactic Republic reduced and glorified to a simple pennant of stars.

Five other forms huddle around the scant warmth of the smokeless fire, their breathing slow and deep. Obi-Wan knows he must be the only one awake. It is not fear of the gorgodons, or an ache in his chest, or the cold air that keeps him so; it is his thoughts. The heavy, rough fabric of the cloak still spread over him is not unlike its owner; sharp with commands, piercing to approach, but an immensely comforting presence. Obi-Wan can see the Jedi Master from his place on the marble floor, glimpse the twinkle in his eyes as some hidden memory amuses him. Obi-Wan snuggles deeper into Qui-Gon's cloak, breathing in the memory of a hundred worlds, a hundred missions. He knows the gorgodons and Asharl panthers will not harm him tonight. Master Qui-Gon is watchful.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon's gaze does not stray from the sealed and barred door. What occurred earlier that day was almost completely due to a lapse of judgement on his part. Gorgodons were to be expected; he had prepared for them, arriving at mid-morning, when the beasts were usually asleep after a long night hunting. The actual attack had not been _that_ much of a surprise; what _does_ disturb Qui-Gon is that the gorgodon came alone, when their species hunt exclusively in packs. Another anomaly is that it attacked him first, and continued to do so for a good long while. Pack-hunters instinctively go for the weakest, smallest member of a herd – in this case, Luminara or Obi-Wan. The male gorgodon had instead targeted the apparent alpha male, in a complete reversal from its natural behavioural traits.

Qui-Gon shifts in his meditation posture. A nagging suspicion hovers at the edge of his mind. He had replayed the battle hundreds of times in his mind, figuring out the exact positions of every padawan and initiate throughout the chaos. He was startled to find that Obi-Wan had stayed by his side for the entire duration, up until the gorgodon suddenly changed its focus to the boy. _Did the gorgodon only attack Obi-Wan when he barred its way to me?_ But gorgodons are not sentient. That leaves only one other cause.

_Force-compulsion._

He shrugs off the theory; the evidence is insubstantial. In fact, Mace would probably have laughed outright at the idea. Qui-Gon can almost hear him. "_Now, now, Qui, I know you love pathetic life forms, but who would bother Force-suggesting them?"_

Amusement twitches the corners of his lips upward. If only Tahl were here…

Curiosity leaks into the Force behind him, seeping underneath young shields addled by exhaustion and half-slumber.

Qui-Gon rises silently and paces over to the small bundle of brown cloak and red-golden brown hair. Obi-Wan's eyes are shut and his breathing even and controlled, and Qui-Gon hides a smile. Obi-Wan might have been trained in the ways of the Force, but his practical skills are still lacking. His breathing pattern is just a little _too_ controlled to be truly convincing.

"Why are you not asleep, young one?" Qui-Gon sighs, his fingers hovering over the worn folds of the cloak, _his_ cloak, before drawing back.

For the second time in two days, Obi-Wan reaches up, eyes still closed, and taps his temple.

Cryptic as ever. "Do not brood over today's incident. You did well."

Obi-Wan's eyelids flutter open this time, and he shakes his head vigorously. His gaze is elsewhere, reflecting the ageless light of the stars, as he mimes a Force-push, then folds his fingers into a fist so tight his knuckles whiten.

"Ah." Qui-Gon would have chuckled, if he had not so convinced himself against forming further bonds with the boy. At the moment, he is simply teaching as an older Jedi to a younger. "This is your first experience of taking a life with the Force."

A diminutive nod. The riotous spikes of brown hair burrow deeper into warm, rough cloth.

_Sweet Force, he's more like me than I thought._ Qui-Gon chooses his next words carefully. "And you question the good in you, that you would willingly sacrifice another life?"

Shame floods the Force about them.

"Gorgodons are not sentinent, Obi-Wan. That particular one was even more feral than most of its species. By causing its death, you saved ours." He pauses. Obi-Wan is still, now. Qui-Gon knows he is listening hard under the cloak. "When you called on the Force to break the stalagmites, were you thinking of murder or of harm?" His voice is unassuming, gentle.

The cloak shivers as Obi-Wan's head shakes.

"Intent is as important as the action itself," Qui-Gon says calmly, watching as Obi-Wan's forehead emerges slowly from blankets and cloak until their gazes meet. "You fought with the intent to protect, not to kill," Qui-Gon presses. "That is the true and right intention of a Jedi Guardian."

Obi-Wan's eyes could have been shining saucers. Even though Qui-Gon cannot see the lower half of his face through the cloak, he knows the boy is smiling.

Qui-Gon's fingers itch to pull his cloak tighter about the boy's shoulders, but with an effort of will, he catches himself. "Go to sleep," he murmurs, lacing the words with a subtle Force-suggestion. "You will need all your strength in the morning."

Obi-Wan falls into the comforting embrace of the Force, not knowing whether the hand on his forehead is imagined or tangible.

Qui-Gon doesn't know either.

But for tonight, he guards his young in the Council-chamber of Ilum, the stars spin overhead, and the music of the spheres a gentle lullaby humming with the sonorous melody of the many crystals below.

(:~:)

**Force-forsaken stars! I wanted to fit in some of the drama I thought up in this chapter, but the gorgodon fight took up more space then I thought it would. Something major will happen next chapter though, so I humbly beg your forgiveness. *bows* It just occurred to me that Qui-Gon's quite a stubborn git in this chapter. Can't he just give in? It's in character for him to be stubborn, though, but it doesn't stop me from wanting to get Tahl to slap some sense into him. Maybe I will…**

**Next chapter: snow, more snow, visions, crystals, and a sudden warmth.**


	5. Crystal Clear and Crystal Clouded

**Hey there! I love you all. Thank you for all the response there's been for my last chapter. This chapter was slightly harder for me to write, because of what I planned for it, but it turned out okay in the end. I forgot to explain Huei Tori's name last chapter. Technically it's supposed to be 'Hui', Chinese for 'grey', but I added the E to help with pronunciation for those who are unfamiliar with Chinese. Huei is a single syllable, not 'Hu-ei'. Tori is Japanese for 'bird'. So Huei Tori means grey bird. I thought it fitted his character well. A longer chapter for you today – 4000 words. Couldn't cut it any sooner, so more for you guys! YAY!**

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**Guest:**** She does that often enough with words, does she not? Thank you very much for reviewing. See you around!**

**Fanfic Lurker:**** Thanks for the suggestion. I didn't change it because I didn't want to break up the flow of the fight, but I won't be doing sudden POV changes like that a lot. So no worries XD**

**Queen Yoda:**** That was one monster review. And I agree with you completely – how much more obvious does the Unifying Force have to get? Qui stumbles about like an adorable blind Hawk-Bat half the time. It's a wonder how Obi turned out the way he did in canon. And I'm very glad I got Quinlan, Garen and Obi's interaction right, because I have close to zero reference material of Quinlan. I've got a general impression I work with. Thank you, and enjoy the chapter!**

**Link:**** Aww, thank you! I don't know whether I'm going to make Tahl slap Qui that quickly, actually. I might save it for later on. XD Thanks for your continued reviews – they're wonderful!**

**MJLupin27:**** I know you're not technically a guest, but I got your review today so I'm replying to it here. Thank you for reviewing! Your use of exclamation marks had me laughing my head off. I'm flattered to have written something of the sort you were spending a long time searching for. I hope this chapter meets your expectations!**

**Georgina:**** Hey, I hope you see this! Thank you so much for your review, it was very encouraging. And I really like your name, by the way – it's not that popular, but not very rare either. That little quirk is interesting. XD**

**And here we are…new chapter.**

(:~:)

On Ilum, the first sliver of pre-dawn light filters warily into the stars, a wreath of autumn-coloured leaves twining over the indigo arch of the sky. Qui-Gon feels the Force thrum with expectation, washing away the ache in his knees from a night kneeling sentinel. There will be no need for meditation this morning. The vaulted ice ceiling seems to capture and amplify the melodic hum of the crystals below, focusing and capturing the morning radiance and bathing them in glorious Light. The Force caresses them in its vergence here, the highest and most central point of the Ilum Jedi enclave. Why would they need to meditate, to _center_, when the tower of Ilum itself is a focusing crystal for the stars' light?

Qui-Gon suppresses a small smile. _The Jedi is the crystal of the Force._ Never has this teaching been so aptly coalesced into a single moment.

The circle of slumbering initiates and padawans form a six-pointed star around the dying embers of the fire. Wrapped in their camouflaged white blankets, the young Jedi form the spokes of a snowflake, the glowing warmth of the fire at their heart.

Actually, rather _messy_ snowflake, but a snowflake nonetheless.

Garen Muln sprawls spread-eagled on his stomach under a riotous tumble of bedding, drool threatening to drip from his open mouth. Quinlan Vos lies on his side, shivering slightly and mumbling under his breath, his brow creasing as he wanders in dreams of his past. Reeft Shinren is a chaos of gangly, growing limbs. Luminara Unduli's slight form rests gracefully, hands clasped on her stomach, rising and falling with each slow breath. Huei Tori appears to sleep easy, but – Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow at this – a slightly larger bulge under his cloak reveals where one hand clasps tightly around his training 'saber.

And of course, Obi-Wan Kenobi is curled like a vulnerable akk pup under the dark folds of Qui-Gon's cloak, tufts of ice-limned lighter brown hair curling like soft grass over the top. The Jedi Master frowns as he reaches down to brush the crystals of ice from the surface of the cloak. They were going to have to work on keeping aware of surroundings when sleeping. As much as Padawan Huei Tori's perfection irks him, Qui-Gon knows that a Jedi can never rest easy on any mission. Obi-Wan would have a difficult job of protecting himself should an enemy–

Qui-Gon barely manages to stop himself from spewing a particularly spectacular Huttese curse when he realises where his current train of thoughts are taking him. Obi-Wan is not his Padawan. The burden of training him does not fall to Qui-Gon, but rather his future master, whomever that might be. There is very little chance of him ever seeing the bright young boy again after this mission, as no doubt _someone_ must have observed his prodigious 'saber skills in the last exhibition tournament. That in itself should be merit enough to take Obi-Wan as their padawan. He grimaces; this must a small comfort for one who cannot speak.

But that does not explain the sudden empty feeling in Qui-Gon's stomach, nor an inexplicable sense of loss.

Qui-Gon, to his embarrassment, is startled when a small, warm hand covers his. Obi-Wan's grey-blue irises are sleepy, but somewhat confused as they stare up at the conflicting emotions running across the Jedi Master's face.

"Good. You're awake," Qui-Gon says roughly as he straightens, wiping his features blank with speed born from years of practice. "I've a pot of tea and another of caff over by the fire. Finish your morning ablutions and help yourself."

Obi-Wan nods his understanding, but a small frown of bewilderment downturns his mouth as Qui-Gon slides his hand out from under Obi-Wan's smaller one and grasps the heavy fabric. Turning, Qui-Gon quickly strides to wake the others as he slides into his cloak, pretending not to notice Obi-Wan's questioning gaze on his retreating back, or the wince that passes over the young features as yesterday's injury protests to the motion. Obi-Wan's lingering warmth still saturates Qui-Gon's cloak, but he pushes it away as a distraction.

Initiates and padawans alike wake quietly, any childish grumblings eclipsed by years of rigorous training by crèche masters, or perhaps more so by anticipation of the task before them. Today would be an important rite of passage for all of them; the first in a series of trials set throughout their time as padawans, trials culminating in the age-old ritual of blade passing through braid. All are eager to prove themselves. Even the usually incorrigible Quinlan is slightly subdued.

Conversation is limited and short as they set to a sparse breakfast of dry rations, though Qui-Gon notices that Obi-Wan's cup is the only one with the clear green scent of tea rising from its lip. The caff pot is emptied quickly, with five separate small hands reaching for it at once. Obi-Wan appears slightly surprised but grateful when a large hand silently offers to refill his tea, and Qui-Gon fervently hopes that the boy does not realise this is the result of a vague feeling of guilt for confusing him earlier.

The moment of departure reaches them unannounced in its suddenness. The line of smaller forms trail in the shadow of the larger one as they march quietly down the empty corridors. There are no gorgodons in the alcoves on this frosty morning, or asharl panthers padding in the inky recesses. The entire temple holds its breath in reverent silence, as if the hallowed halls of an Order past have been undisturbed for centuries, dust and light and snow melding into one still, grey ambivalence, neither welcoming or foreboding. The gravity of rich history weighs in a heavy lack of sound on seven sets of shoulders, their echoing steps chanting the Crystal Code over tributaries of memories, flowing into the torrent of the Force. Down this river winds, over arched staircases that were once fair, through hidden gardens and iced-over colonnades, a solemn, growing tide, until it flows out to an open courtyard and into a yawning cavern, where it plummets in a waterfall of soundless joy and sorrow to dance in the crystalline chambers below.

Qui-Gon levels his gaze at the entrance to the crystal caves, wondering at how the sight never fails to make him feel insignificant, despite his growing age and rank. The courtyard is hushed in a blanket of pure white behind him, broken only by the crisp crunch of footsteps.

"Stop here." Qui-Gon's usually loud voice seems muffled, swallowed on one side by darkness and on the other by a desert of ice and snow. Six thumps of packs hitting the ground are similarly quiet. Qui-Gon closes his eyes. There are never _right_ words for this moment, only _necessary_ ones.

"What each of you face in these caves will be different," he begins, looking into each young face before him. Determination, apprehension, wonder. "This is the first of your trials, and should you find success, you will be another step closer to becoming a Knight." As always, the younglings' gazes brighten at this, and Qui-Gon pauses to harden his heart against what he has to say next. "Not all of you may succeed," he says softly. He does not need to raise his voice, for every eye is riveted upon him. "It may be the Will of the Force. Not every initiate or padawan is destined to be a Jedi."

Obi-Wan's gaze flicks to his feet, and up again, so fleeting that Qui-Gon nearly misses the motion.

"But this does not constitute failure," Qui-Gon continues, his words growing lighter. "A Jedi does not live solely to serve the Republic, and to serve the Order." Dimly, he wonders if he is taking this too far, but he continues nonetheless. Obi-Wan has to understand. _"A Jedi is the crystal of the Force,"_ he recites, his gaze growing sharp and his smile fierce. "You serve the Force, first and foremost. Remember this, and even should you return empty-handed, you have succeeded far more than one who wrests a crystal forcibly from the rock."

There are mixed reactions to Qui-Gon's declaration. Huei tilts his head and says nothing, but his eyes glitter perceptively. Luminara similarly seems undecided. Obi-Wan, however, appears to light up from within, his blindingly bright smile a laugh that dances a ghostly path in Qui-Gon's mind. Intangible, imagined?

He brushes it aside. One last warning. "The traditions forbid bringing any weapons with you. You may wear a coat and carry a signal flare, but every Jedi enters the caves arrayed according to their own choice."

Six serious faces stare back at him, young, but no longer naïve. Jedi younglings never were.

Qui-Gon nods in return, a dip of the head that is almost a bow. A last salute, to those who venture far. Heaviness burdens his words. "Then may the Force be with you."

Huei enters first, wrapped in his sturdy winter coat, headlamp seeming to throw more sable on the walls than luminance. Luminara follows a respectful pause later, her head uncovered and clad only in her light inner coat and leggings. Quinlan, Garen and Reeft are swallowed by the darkness almost at the same moment, their small torches but fireflies quickly consumed by night.

Obi-Wan does not meet Qui-Gon's gaze as he divests himself of double coats, boots, thick outer trousers and gloves. Tabards and obi join the neat pile at his feet. When he stands again, he is only clothed in the thin linen tunic and coarse, loose-fitting trousers of the Jedi Order. His bare feet curl pink in the snow.

"Do you not intend to carry a lamp with you?" The words slip out of Qui-Gon's lips before his mind even conceived of it. The question echoes with concern – not that he would actively show it, of course.

Flimsy and stylus are produced, a quick line spun in spidery letters across the surface. Obi-Wan's hands are steady when he hands the sheet cross to him, the worn page still warm from his skin, but Qui-Gon does not miss the slight tremble in the boy's fingers as they leave the flimsy.

The Force trickles around them, binding them, as Qui-Gon lowers his gaze to Obi-Wan's reply.

A slash of horizontal ink, a salute and disarming strike in one. '_I wear my robe so that I am warm; I carry my lightsaber so that I am safe; and I keep enough credits for my next meal, so that I am not hungry. If the Force wants me to have more, it finds a way of letting me know.' – Jedi Master Sora Kagoro_

Qui-Gon finds himself blinking rapidly as an unexpected rush of pride rises in his chest. "A fitting quote, little one," he murmurs. He does not ruin Obi-Wan's carefully crafted work by mentioning that of Master Kagaro's three statements, neither of the latter two apply to him. "Are you quite sure?" Qui-Gon ventures, knowing he is pushing the boundaries but deciding he doesn't care.

Obi-Wan nods fervently, a hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. _Little one._

Qui-Gon makes to return the flimsy, but Obi-Wan shakes his head gently, raising his hands to fold Qui-Gon's rougher fingers over the crackling sheet. Obi-Wan's now-cold fingers remain there longer than strictly necessary – and neither of them is quite sure who is deriving more comfort from the touch – before he withdraws, places his stylus carefully on his gear, and bows low to Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon bows back just as respectfully, chuckling at Obi-Wan's obvious wonder. For a moment, they stand opposite each other, small smiles on their faces, eyes twinking and serious.

Then Obi-Wan turns and paces into the darkness, not looking back.

In the sudden, frozen hollowness of the air, Qui-Gon tucks the flimsy into his tunic and lets the words warm his heart. It is a paltry comfort, but it will have to suffice for the long wait to come.

(:~:)

Dark.

When the absence of light is so complete, paradoxical, ethereal forms mold themselves out of pure sable, currents of shadow and lines of obsidian, preludes to nightmares and enchanting lullabies, all intangible, changing, half-imagined and yet real. Endless emptiness, cold air, no sound, no touch, no _time_. There is no time here, for light is held captive. Night without the songbird, sky without stars, horizonless ink in the waters of the mind. There is nothing. Save for the Force.

Obi-Wan clings to the Force like a blind man to his cane as he wanders for an indeterminable period, knowing that although time does not flow, the Force does still, a solitary running river in a still desert. His feet have long lost all feeling; he might have walked ten galactic standard kilometres or ten parsecs, though more likely the former. In this state of non-being, he slips into meditation as easily as falling asleep. Centering himself when there _is_ no centre requires no effort at all.

The first glow is so muted and so soft, Obi-Wan nearly forgets to breathe.

With each step, crystals flicker to life by his feet, in the walls, in hidden recesses and yet-unexplored pathways, growing free and unhindered on the ley lines of the Force, golden spider-silk that wreathes about him in thrumming strings of power. Gossamer thin, they glisten softly in the shadows, driving back the dark, lending his frozen limbs new strength and giving him sight deeper than any other. This new world is lit only in a manner that Force-sensitives can see, where the Force is concentrated as thick as warmth under the noonday sun.

Obi-Wan walks a hidden path of innumerable stars, sapphire, azure and cerulean, emerald, harlequin, and jade. Mauve and violet flash here and there, gold, teal and jasmine white. Scarlet is here, too, but it is untainted by the Sith, like new blood thrumming with the Force's heart. Iridescent crystals wink at him like jewels on all sides, but these are not pure enough for his purposes. What he seeks lies deeper.

And then the golden ley-lines flicker and condense into a corporeal form.

Obi-Wan bows once to a silvery-sapphire Qui-Gon, who smiles down at him, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with lines Obi-Wan has not seen before, like the strands of grey in his hair. A glowing hand reaches over Obi-Wan's shoulder, fingering a braid that is not there. There is such affection and familiarity in the movement that Obi-Wan feels words rise in his throat. But for once, his inability to speak truly betrays him, and he can only open and close his mouth helplessly below his shining eyes.

But Qui-Gon nods in understanding, his own lips parting in a chuckle, deep and sonorous. _"Courage, Padawan mine. A long, hard road lies ahead."_ The words reverberate in Obi-Wan's mind, and he knows that this Qui-Gon does not only refer to his path to the crystal. And his heart is still reeling from the title. _Padawan!_

Qui-Gon stands aside, bowing gravely. _"And do give my younger self a good kicking for his stubbornness,"_ he seems to laugh. _"You both have much to learn. From each other."_ A last brush of an imaginary braid, fingers hovering over air.

Then his master is gone, leaving only spots of darkness in his vision.

Obi-Wan blinks back a sudden film of moisture over his vision, and stumbles forward, grasping at the courage he has been given.

(:~:)

In the half-shadowed courtyard, Qui-Gon flows through the motions of a level five advanced Ataru kata, the harlequin hum of his 'saber whirling spheres of dazzling light around his silhouetted form. Sweeping into a dodge, the whirring blade passes a tight circle around his body, intercepting an invisible weapon. The Force curls about his feet in eager anticipation, and like a coiled spring set free from its box, Qui-Gon dives through the air, cloak and hair snow-edged pennants twisting over the ever-changing crisp green of his lightsaber.

He had mastered this kata decades ago, reforged it through years of fire, and quenched it with loss, creating a silvered dance that flows effortlessly from moment to moment in silk-covered steel. This particular rendition should be no different to any before, and even to the eyes of Battlemaster Anoon Bondara, it is still a masterpiece.

But the difference lies in the folded piece of flimsy next to his heart.

It is a worn page, a leaf of acrylic rough with use – and it is Obi-Wan's _voice_. That Obi-Wan would entrust him with something so precious had shocked Qui-Gon to the core. In a single movement, Obi-Wan had taken Qui-Gon's stubborn shields and decimated them. It is not a Makashi mark of dishonor, like his old master would have done, or a Vaapad disarming strike, but a simple Shii-Cho thrust that he should have seen coming from light-years away.

_There is no emotion. There is peace._

And there is Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon sinks deeper into his active meditation, yearning, hoping for a release from the path that the Force so clearly wants him to tread, and knows that when he finishes his kata, when he reels in the threads of the Force that he flings out in whiplashes of green and white, the answer will be what he had feared.

His lightsaber slews messily to a halt, the bright hum fading in a broken-off slash that jerks him into full awareness. The plasma blade hisses back into its hilt, and Qui-Gon hooks the weapon back onto his belt, his chest heaving as he returns to the beginning position, hands by his sides, back straight, eyes closed.

_Fear._ The answer is there. He _fears _to take another Padawan.

Yoda's crotchety old voice floats back to him from his younger years. _"Fear leads to anger, hmm? And anger leads to suffering. Face his fear, a Jedi must."_

Qui-Gon fights a bizzare desire to laugh. _So I have been blind all this time._ He stills himself, and he listens. And when he is ready, he opens his eyes and starts anew.

(:~:)

Obi-Wan knows he has almost reached his goal when the visions begin to glow brighter, obscuring detail and becoming ever more clouded. A featureless aquamarine figure rises out of the ground, fingers stroking his cheek. Obi-Wan knows that perhaps he should be apprehensive, but such radiance and warmth radiates from the presence that he does not find the need to. It does not speak as he passes, but words reach his mind nonetheless: _Take care of this stubborn barve for me, will you, dear?_

One after another; the visions are relentless, leaving Obi-Wan barely aware of the taste of blood on his tongue, the dryness of his throat, the heaving of his breaths as his pace grows uneven. The words sink deep. They might lie dormant for years, or for days. But Obi-Wan has no time to dwell on the matter, for the next of his futures is upon him.

At a fork in the tunnel, a divergence in the Force, a single small form glows with the brightness of a hundred suns, burning with white fire, a figure made purely from the Force itself. Obi-Wan's vision shifts; he sees flashes of golden-brown hair, rough tunics, sky-blue eyes. And he hears a young voice, excited, _adoring_: "_Master!"_

Obi-Wan dares not think too deeply on what this means. The very _idea_ that he should make the journey to knighthood, and from there train a padawan of his own is but a distant dream.

But what lies behind this small image is deeply disturbing. One tunnel glows red with the scarlet crystals embedded in the walls, the Force within seething with imbalance. The other is equally as dark, a wave of crimson hexagons choking emerald and sapphire. But at the very end, there is a glimmer of purest azure.

Obi-Wan turns into the second tunnel, and staggers forward blindly, groping for the bright star of pure light, the visions threatening to overwhelm him in a torrent of emotions and sound. A dry, rocky world, a pit in the ground swarming with droids and men in white and yellow armour, the number 66 flashing before his eyes, the sensation of falling; a terrible heat, magma, screams. With each stumbling step, crimson crystals sweep over the pure blue and green luminance beside him, until he is a solitary sapphire star in an overarching sky of blood. A scream he knows he cannot release claws at his throat; the Force slams into him in one shocking gust of wind, and–

A baby's newborn cry echoes in his ears, a haunting, joyful melody, joined by a second child's a moment later, forming a wonderful, soothing duet. The world of red shivers, quivering before his eyes; and shatters like the shards of a mirror.

Obi-Wan lets out a soundless shout as he squeezes his eyes shut, a cacophony of noise ringing in his ears.

Silence.

With sobbing, gasping breaths, Obi-Wan forces open his eyes, sneaking a look over his shoulder to find only a blank wall of ice behind him. Daylight lances in on him out of a small opening above. He is exhausted; rivulets of sweat run down his face, intermingled with shameless tears. He digs his fists into the ground, and winces as something hard in his palm digs into his skin.

Hardly daring to hope, Obi-Wan raises his closed fist to eye-level and slowly opens his fingers.

An azure crystal lies enthroned on his pale skin, perfect and simple and deadly all at once, singing to him softly in a language he does not understand, but somehow _knows_, like the lullabies his mother must have sung to him as a baby, swaddled in the cocoon of the Force. The light shimmers as it glances off the angled surface, throwing a spectrum of iridescent colour in a dazzling whirlwind of colour on the icy walls around him. And when Obi-Wan begins to laugh, the silent wheezing of his breath the only indication of his relief, the crystal chuckles with him, giving his laugh sound and music and beauty that only he can hear.

Obi-Wan does not quite know how he manages it, but it is only when daylight washes over his icy limbs and his hands and feet fall crunching into snow does he realise that he has emerged into the open. The sky wheels overhead, endless.

Clutching his crystal close to his heart, Obi-Wan curls into a ball in the freshly fallen snow and lets the Force flow through him. He has never realized quite how beautiful Ilum is before.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon is beginning to worry. Contrary to what 'starting anew' usually entails for members of the Jedi Order, he had spent most of the past few hours brooding relentlessly over Obi-Wan's safety. The others had returned, one by one, trailing out of the main entrance and other side caverns, half-frozen, wide smiles of victory on their features, to wrap themselves in cloaks and share their experiences with voices shaking from chattering teeth. Garen in particular is grinning like a maniac even as his quivering hand threatens to spill hot caff all over himself.

And yet Obi-Wan has not returned.

Qui-Gon meanders over to the cliff face next to the main entrance, hoping that the delicate patterns in the ice would distract him. But alas, to no avail. His thoughts turn to Obi-Wan once again – he would owe the boy an apology. A wry smile spreads. Tahl would have the pleasure of victory once again.

A sudden chill in the Force.

Qui-Gon senses the spike of _wrongness_ a moment before he feels a flutter of passing air, like the subtle wake of a Force-push. He frowns, beginning to turn–

And an ear-splitting crack resounds through the air as the entire cliff face breaks off, plummeting towards him in a maelstrom ice and splinters.

There is no time to even cry out as suffocating darkness surrounds him. As the last of the daylight vanishes, Qui-Gon's fading thoughts are of the younglings.

And Obi-Wan.

(:~:)

**Don't kill me. I know many of you probably want to Force-choke me right now, but my twin sister (we beta each others' fics) Turned and already did that to me, so I'm writing this as a Force-echo. And yes, I've been apprenticed to the Shaman of the Whills before.**

**That aside, I AM sorry to leave you there until next chapter. I overshot again and so I have to leave the last third of what I wanted to put in this chapter for the next. What I intend for next chapter definitely will get them off Ilum, though, so if you guys are getting tired of Ilum it won't last that long. Thank you all for reading, as always, and do tell me what you think!**


	6. Crystal, Blade, Jedi

**This chapter is like...sigh. I can't explain. THE PAIN I had to go through writing it in one go today was all the more hilarious because parts of it wrote itself, whereas for other bits I had to focus really hard to get it right. This is second-last chapter for this 'arc' of the story, anyway, and after this we can get into the REALLY good stuff. READ the A/N at the end! It's important!**

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**Fanfic Lurker:**** Well, here you are. I hope it satisfies and leaves you with warm fuzzy feelings. Muahahaha.**

**Georgina:**** Thank you so much for your amusing comments! But really, you can't be nerdier than I am. I practice 'saber moves with my wooden Japanese chokuto so I get more of a feel about writing lightsaber stuff. I love Qui too, and this chapter OOZES Qui. Hope you like.**

**Queen Yoda:**** Thank you dearly for all the praise. I very rarely get reviewers as awesome as you. I dunno whether it would turn into an AU, but I will take it as it comes. Poetic stuff galore in this chappie. Thought a lot about what you said when I was writing it.**

**Link:**** Thanks as always. If you want fluffy stuff, this chapter got fluffly stuff. XD Ignore me. I'm drunk on the Force after writing this quickly.**

**Mouse:**** I'm really sorry; I don't really understand what you were going on about in your review. Care to explain more?**

**S10Luxoka:**** Yup yup! Thank you very much. Here you go.**

**And here we are... the story continues.**

(:~:)

Of all the usual emotions associated with being buried alive, Qui-Gon Jinn, true to his maverick reputation, chooses a rather surprising one – annoyance. There is no trace of panic or desperation in his steady heart as he takes shallow, measured breaths, conserving the air pocket he created with the Force the moment the ice surrounded him. As he withdraws deeply within himself to conserve oxygen, his irritation at his predicament soars to new heights. This _particular_ meditation is… novel, to say the least; Qui-Gon does not so much release his aggravation into the Force as upend his prodigious repertoire of multi-lingual expletives into its swelling currents.

This is most decidedly _not_ his favoured method of dying. Not that any sentient being would have a 'favoured' manner of death in particular, but in his youth he had always supposed, in the morbid, fascinated interest of younglings, that he would die of a devastating Sith-'sabered _sai cha_ strike to the neck, blood spilling gloriously messily on the battlefield. In his padawan days, he had been disabused of this fanciful notion by his Master's stern Sentinel lectures, and so moved on to the _much_ more pleasant idea of sacrificing his own life while protecting the younglings within the temple. Of course, this thread of thought would be both meaningless and unnecessary, since – as he had contemplated with incredulity before – the Jedi Temple would have to fall for that situation to become a reality.

And then finally, as unlikely as the dream is to be, Qui-Gon had settled on a distant, wistful vision – to die old and grey, a veteran of the field, his legacy passed onto generations of Jedi to come, his final moments illuminated in the eternal music of the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

A small smile curves his lips in the suffocating, heavy dark. In other words, dying as an irritable old gundark, maverick to the end of his days. Tahl would be proud.

_Tahl._

Qui-Gon would have once said that if he and Tahl were to die together, he would be satisfied, no matter what the circumstances… but he finds his thoughts turning to another Jedi, younger and different in every way, but as dependent on him as Tahl is, if not more.

Obi-Wan's face flutters in and out of Qui-Gon's conciousness, smiling, pensive, serious, amused, worried. Qui-Gon has known the boy but a few days, and already his features and their many expressions are archived in exquisite detail in Qui-Gon's mind.

Wonderful. Now annoyance has given way to regret.

_There is no death. There is the Force._

A hazy thought surfaces, floundering in the stilling waves of his mind. His lonely smile widens. Oxygen deprivation and Force immersion is somewhat equivalent to a drunken stupor. He might have received what he wanted after all…a quiet death, as easy as falling asleep and letting the Force surround him.

At the threshold of consciousness, Qui-Gon pauses, supposes he should wait a few moments. For _what_, he does not know, but the Force murmurs quietly in its lullaby that the music is not done. When Qui-Gon groans and falls deeper, the resistance only strengthens. It seems that becoming one with the Force requires it to accept you, and the Force has decided to throw a tantrum of protest.

_Who knew?_ Qui-Gon whispers silently to the Force, amusement glinting like a duller light in a river of luminance. _ You're a maverick like me._

(:~:)

Obi-Wan grimaces with weariness as he nears the citadel, his heart still filled with the inexplicable feeling of dread that rushed into him mere minutes ago. With a last burst of nervous energy, he rushes uncharacteristically clumsily into the rear courtyard of the Ilum Jedi Temple to find a scene of utter chaos.

Quinlan is hacking at the maze of fettered debris with his training 'saber, white-lipped and strangely quiet in his fervour. The low-temperature blade barely makes a dent. Silent tears run down Luminara's cheeks as she tends to a moaning Reeft, whose sleeve is rolled up to expose a deep gash, the shard of ice that caused it lying scarlet-limned a short distance away. Garen's eyes are suspiciously wet. His desperate Force-pushes hardly disturb the sharp peaks and crystalline mountains of translucent blue ice.

Qui-Gon is nowhere to be found.

Obi-Wan's lungs seem to seize up as he comes to the inescapable conclusion. Numbly, his gaze rakes over the wide morass of ice shards and small boulders, and the scarred cliff-face above the undisturbed entrance to the crystal caves. _Master Qui-Gon…_

Through the desolation permeating the Force, a sudden spike of something _dark_ wavers in the tepid waters, like a shadow in the corner of his vision. Obi-Wan's head snaps towards the citadel, and finds nothing… except Huei Tori, who stares blankly over all, his mask of immaculate calm shattered at his feet, frozen with disbelief. All his padawan perfection is worth nothing in the face of such a tragedy.

Obi-Wan searches within himself for panic, for fear, for the scream that he knows will not make it past his throat.

He finds only calm.

The Force commands him, and he obeys. When he moves, he glides across the hard ground without haste. Garen and Quinlan cease their efforts, turning stricken eyes towards Obi-Wan's progress, confusion and exhaustion creasing their brows. Luminara similarly looks up from her medical supplies, dashing tears from her eyes as she stares unabashedly at his peace.

Obi-Wan ignores them all and kneels by his pack in meditation position, reaching within his tunic for his azure crystal. It hovers above his hands, a solitary blue star in a bleached sky of white. Quinlan shouts something at him, but he brushes it aside. This is not where he had intended to do this, but the Force tells him, quietly, _here._

A maelstrom whirls in the Force around him as the others give in to their emotions, sending fear, despair, doubt, curiosity, anger, and sorrow in a dizzying barrage against his shields. Obi-Wan is the eye of the storm, the still, silent air that charges with electricity in the centre of chaos. _There is no passion. There is serenity._ Here, in this paradox of white and colour that is the Ilum and the Force, the crystal hums a soothing lullaby. And Obi-Wan _listens_.

The crystal is a conduit of the Force. The Unifying Force flows around him, whispering of what there is to come, of winters without spring and night without stars, of wind on his hair and salt on his lips, of waiting in sunset for returning voices at the door. Obi-Wan's heart slows, matching the rhythm of the pulsing crystal, which in turn dances to the hidden melody of the Living Force. He does not feel the need to breathe, even, for he and the Force are one.

The azure star on his palm glows with hidden light. _The crystal is the heart of the blade._

The crystal dances with each beat of his heart. _The heart is the crystal of the Jedi._

His heart rejoices as it listens to the music of the spheres. _The Jedi is the crystal of the Force._

And the symphony of stars gives him his answer. _The Force is the blade of the heart._

Obi-Wan's eyes open, but his gaze is focussed on a separate world, where time does not flow but hovers in one laughing crest for eternity. He raises a hand, and carved pieces of chrome and obsidian rise out of his pack, drifting towards him. Each component is exquisitely detailed, etched with hope and quenched with tears. When finished, they would form the weapon of a Jedi, an aspiration light-years away and barred by trials of blood, loss, and speech. This is the blade of his heart, for his hopes and his dreams, his identity and all his unspoken words are fired into it, to guard against the trials to come.

_All are interwined._

The unassembled hilt hovers around the crystal, forming an unfinished mosaic of aspirations and failures.

_The crystal, the blade, the Jedi._

If Obi-Wan tilts his head ever so slightly, he can _hear_ the stars dance above, the crystal humming in his hand, and the drumbeat of his heart, steady in his chest. For once, he does not need to speak, for it all _sings_ to him.

_We are one._

The curved mosaic of the saber hilt fuses into a seamless whole, obscuring but never hiding the radiance of the crystal within.

The dazzling flash of the azure blade flings back the residual darkness in the Force like a storm gale scything through wildgrass, a vergence in the Force so strong that the very air tastes of the plasma effluvia of the blade. It is incandescent, pure, like silver through the forge and deadly in its purpose.

Obi-Wan raises his gaze at the rubble of ice and rock, and sees nothing but the currents of the Force parting like water around their sharp-edged forms. His lightsaber sings eagerly in his palm, a lightning bolt of arcing energy that sets the frosted wind around its blade afire.

And as he strides forward, Obi-Wan feels a stray chord in the music of the Force call to him, and his mind fills with glorious light as he flings open the locked doors of a new bond, his own solo melody warping, variating to a crescendo, laughing as it transforms into a duet.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon gasps as a torch is hurled into his mind, lighting his nerves aflame and flaring bright pain in his cramped muscles. His Force-addled gaze flickers down towards his chest, and his breath would have hitched if there were any air left. A glowing, golden cord flows out of his heart and into the Force, an astral tether to the heavens, attached to some solid, unknown anchor. He summons the last of his strength and tugs weakly on this shining lifeline, ignoring the pain that stabs his heart as he does so. Waiting is an agony of silence, the shadows swarming in on the connection like acid to a web. But an answer pulses back to him, and a beautiful _awareness_ blossoms in the back of his mind.

Qui-Gon clings to this bond like a drowning man to his rope, pleading with the Force to sustain him.

(:~:)

Obi-Wan has just finished his last Force-jump when the voice echoes behind his eyes, half image, half sound. _Is that you, padawan mine?_ The voice is weary, fading, but brings with it a strange picture of a smile in the dark, glowing from beneath his feet.

Urgency gives his motions effortless grace. Obi-Wan's 'saber spins in an iridescent circle of impenetrable blue light before sliding into the ice, the edges of the molten wound it carves sparking and hissing with steam as the plasma current wars with rime and compressed stone. Billows of vapour flow past his sweaty hands, and he barely notices the parched desert of his throat, the frostbitten stiffness of his fingers, and the traces of red his bare feet leave as they pivot over the jagged surface.

It is only when the voice speaks again does Obi-Wan fully understand the speaker and his words. Qui-Gon's brush is fettered with exhaustion. _Padawan, is that you?_

The title cartwheels against his reined-in emotions, formal and affectionate all at once. Obi-Wan so dearly wants to answer – he can feel speech upon his lips, hammering against that invisible barrier to the air – but as his 'saber flashes three-quarters of the way through a circle, the Force whispers to him again. Without stopping to think, Obi-Wan gathers all his wishes and pain, loss and joy and sends it into the bond.

His lips move; but he does know if he speaks aloud or shouts his elation into the Force itself.

But the words ring true in the Force nonetheless: _Yes, Master! It's me!_

As his 'saber completes its rotation in the ice, Obi-Wan reaches out with a chapped hand and levers the circle of ice out and into the air, flinging it to shatter against the cliff face. A curled form resides in the resulting opening.

Cerulean eyes meet grey-blue for the briefest of moments, and Qui-Gon Jinn's lips part in a tiny, grateful chuckle.

And then Obi-Wan's 'saber hisses back into its hilt, and the ice rushes up to meet him, even as Garen shouts something unintelligible behind him and overlapping exclamations explode through the echoing ruins of the cliff-face.

As the golden _awareness_ at the back of his mind folds into his unconsciousness, he hears his master murmur, as if in surprise: _Why yes, padawan. It's you._

Obi-Wan's features should be frozen, but they somehow curve into a grin as the Force cradles him into oblivion.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon floats on a comfortable cloud of drug-induced stupor, blocking out all interference as easily as if he were in front of the Council, walling up his mind against their unending blather. But apparently his shields have deteriorated somewhat. If he could only get rid of that aggravating _beeping…_

_Wait. Beeping?_

Qui-Gon cracks open one clear cerulean eye and takes in the fake, digitalised smile of the medi-droid hovering next to him. "And how are we feeling, dearie?" it croons in a terrifying mix of motherly and robotic overtones.

A pause.

In hindsight, maybe he should not haveput _that_ much power into his Force push, because now Vokara Che would have his head for the bits of fried circuitry, metal scraps and sensor plates that are all that remain of a once perfectly functional medi-droid. The Healer's Wing of the Jedi Temple is otherwise silent. His memories are muddled.

As luck would have it – or perhaps the Force is feeling soft – it is not Master Che, but someone else who turns up first.

"Avarin!" Qui-Gon grins amiably at the tall Healer. "I thought you were on extended leave!"

Avarin's mane of silver-black hair swings past his shoulders as he shrugs. "I decided to come back early," he replies genially, sea-blue eyes twinkling merrily. "Home never changes overmuch. It is not… _dull,_ exactly, but I prefer my duties here."

"I don't know how you manage the journey," Qui-Gon says, blinking as Avarin flicks a light into each eye. "Your home planet is in uncharted Wild Space, as I recall."

"Hmm. Yes," Avarin murmurs under his breath, eyes fixed on a reading. "Asgard. It's quite beautiful, and well worth the time needed to travel there. Though should you decide to visit, I'm afraid your journey would be far longer than mine."

_This_ has Qui-Gon's attention. "How? A private hyperspace lane?" he wonders. "That would be illegal by galactic standards–"

"I'm diplomatically immune," Avarin cuts in, raising an eyebrow as he finishes his medical examination. His deep green tunic sleeve slides over the panel as he taps a few buttons. "And speaking of _legalities,_ you know you could be legally bound to pay for that sorry pile of scrap metal over there? Did it wake you from your happy place?" A callused hand flicks towards the remains of the medi-droid, and the debris arranges itself in a neat pile, as if by magic.

Qui-Gon is undaunted by the skilled display of Force-manipulation. "It was annoying me."

"It was doing its job."

The fleetest of smirks passes over Qui-Gon's features. "So are you, apparently. I'm quite irritated."

"Good. That's the whole point of your being here."

Qui-Gon shakes his head, chuckling. "Why aren't you a Jedi?"

Avarin hardly spares him a glance. "You know why. I wasn't found." Master Avarin, despite being the feared Vokara Che's second-in-command, and contrary to his title, is not a Jedi. He, however, has nearly singularly proved that he is Jedi in all but name. When Avarin introduced himself to the Jedi Council a decade previous, he had never _heard_ of the Force, per se. And yet his Force manipulation rivals Master Even Piell's, his Force-healing – apparently self-learnt – earning the respect of Vokara Che. When questioned about philosophy and ideals, he had led Yoda in an hour-long debate on the various merits of the Jedi Code before Mace Windu had one of his rare fits of impatience and promptly gave him the position of second-most senior Healer in the Jedi Temple.

He does not carry a lightsaber. But somehow the two silver knives he always carries tucked away in hidden sheaths on his belt eclipses the presence of a 'saber.

And so, every Jedi from the youngest crècheling to the most senior master – save for Vokara Che – calls him Master Avarin. It does not matter that he has no last name, or that his home is a 'funny-sounding planet from Wild Space', or his dubious diplomatic immunity, or that the Force flickers about him in unending amusement. He is a master of his craft, and receives the respect that he is due.

When working in tandem with Vokara Che, Avarin is immaculate in his rhetoric and nothing but a gentleman in his mannerisms. In fact, for one Obi-Wan Kenobi, he is very nearly the object of wild _hero-worship_. Very nearly, for Kenobi's irrepressible feud with any and all things medical is sufficient deterrent for the boy to exercise restraint.

"Well," Avarin comments drily, "You're fine now, for the most part, save for a few frostbitten toes and such."

_Now?_ Qui-Gon frowns. "Avarin, how long…"

The healer halts mid motion, understanding. "Four days. You were unconscious for four days." His aquamarine eyes glitter with amusement. "Those children you were guarding were quite resourceful. Particularly one Obi-Wan Kenobi…"

A dry swallow. "Yes. And–"

Avarin doesn't miss a beat. "You will find your padawan down the hall. I had to threaten to abolish his right to visit you before he would consent to be admitted. He had quite an impressive range of injuries, even for one returning from Ilum. His bruised ribs, for one thing."

"Thank you." Qui-Gon means it.

Avarin's smile turns into an unrestrained grin of pure delight. "Oh, so you _have_ taken another padawan! Tahl told me you did when she came by a few hours ago. I wouldn't worry about introducing Obi-Wan to her, by the way. I think she's already in love."

Qui-Gon gapes at him, speechless. Then something much more pressing captures his attention. "Avarin," he begins, dead serious.

The dark-haired head turns at the door. Evidently, Avarin knows when to retreat. "Yes, Master Jinn?" he returns lightly.

Qui-Gon's hand rubs at his chin. "What happened to my beard?"

"Ah. That." Avarin's mouth twitches.

"You're at least a decade younger than I am, _Master Avarin,_" Qui-Gon growls. "You may have decided to be clean-shaven, but _I_ have not."

Avarin glances down at his neatly tailored green tunics, thin leather belt, and sensible black trousers and boots. "I'm older than I look. Trust me on that. And just because I have the advantage of better taste–"

"_Avarin."_

A barely suppressed grin. "The younglings were in charge of your wellbeing until your ship returned to Coruscant, where we were waiting to take over. Understandably, there were…complications, onboard. They had trouble fitting an oxygen mask on your face, so they addressed the root of the problem."

Qui-Gon's gaze bores into the other man's nonchalant eyes. "And who, may I ask, proposed _addressing_ this in such a manner?"

Avarin's face falls in misery. "Alas. I am sworn to secrecy," he declares, melancholy dripping off him in dollops.

A snort. "It was Obi-Wan, wasn't it."

The healer slumps against the doorframe. "My honour would be tarnished if I were to reveal–"

"Your bantha-brained honour can Turn for all I care. I'll take that as a yes," Qui-Gon growls. "I'm going to see him. It seems that our first upbraiding session has arrived earlier than I thought it would."

Avarin sweeps out with a bow, somehow making the motion elegant and mocking all at once. "I'll inform Master Uvain, shall I? She wanted to know when you woke." His voice fades down the corridor. "And I'll tell Master Yoda!"

_Avarin never lets anyone have the last word. _Grumbling to himself, Qui-Gon climbs out of bed, groaning as a hundred aches announce their happy presence. He snags a passing helper droid with a tendril of the Force, then proceeds to bully it into bringing him proper clothes. Force be scorned – he will not turn up for his first meeting with his padawan dressed in a medical gown.

Embarrassment aside, Qui-Gon owes his Obi-Wan a healthy dose of gratitude. And an apology.

(:~:)

**Do you like Avarin? He's actually not fully my OC; he was head healer of the Asgardian royal court in my beta and twin sister's fic **_**A Lost Son's Return.**_** For the Avengers fandom. I put him in here because I loved his character and he would be a perfect healer for Qui and Obi. A word to all those particular readers out there – THIS IS NOT A SLASH FIC! I don't write slash fics. Avarin is an amusing character, but I am not going to ship him with anyone. And I won't be making any more references to Avengers, because this is SW. Just assume Avarin is there because he wants to be. He's very secretive.**

And now, a word from Waffles Risa, twinnie: "Hope you guys liked Avarin – of my OCs, he's my darling. Just a quick caveat, if you do end up reading _A Lost Son's Return_, excuse my horrifically bad writing. My current fic is _much_ better. Thanks."

**Ahem. Back to me. Waffles is just being modest. Anyway, I shall have the next chapter up as soon as I finish it. Adorbs stuff. Serious stuff. Adorbs/serious stuff. See you then.**


	7. Forging and Fraying

**Woohoo. Greetings. I poured so much into this chapter that I feel sort of weak now. Happy, though. This chapter is almost completely one long scene, entirely because it felt right to do it that way and not break up the flow of emotions. Some part of this chapter can only be described as a light-trip, and I apologise in advance if it is tiring to read.**

**I also think it is time to tell you all that I won't be following the plot of JA all that much. I don't think that the original plot gave much room for character development. Certain characters like Xanatos and Jenna Zan Arbor will be making appearances, but the rest is all going to be mine. This is my fanfic and I'm ruling it. Muahahaha!**

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**ErinKenobi2893:**** I hope my A/N answered your questions. Thanks for all your kind comments.**

**Fanfic Lurker:**** You're great as always. I do love writing about the Force as if it were a person – it gives it so much more character. In answer to your query, I won't be making any more references to outside SW. And I do hope this chapter's ending doesn't qualify as a cliffie. (eep!)**

**Crazy:**** Yeah, I know Quinlan's more laid back as an adult, but that's only after he went through battle experience in the Stark Hyperspace War with Obi-Wan. At the moment he's still bitter about his family and his memories. And as I said before, Master Chakora Seva is one of Ruth Baulding's characters. I asked her for permission to borrow him because he's a great philosopher. Thanks so much for your reviews. This chapter reveals more.**

**MJLupin27:**** Hugs back! Seriously, thank you for your continued encouragement. Your reviews make me laugh every time. Master-out-of-respect does not feature here, unfortunately, but he will appear soon. **

**Book girl fan:**** Thanks for reviewing! It's great Avarin's being welcomed. And yes, he's far older than he looks. Though not as old as you might think, considering this all happened "A long, long time ago…" XD**

**KenobiTheKid:**** Stubborn as a bantha. Good think he sort of mellows out slightly later. It doesn't really help when it comes to the council, but Obi-Wan is an excellent influence on him.**

**wherethewindblows:**** Thank you dearly. And aren't I nice? New chapter, nine hours after you reviewed!**

**And forwards we go!**

(:~:)

Upon his waking in the Temple Medcenter that morning, Obi-Wan had been offered a very refreshing cup of strong caff by the padawan on duty, pumped with another dose of anti-pathogen drugs, given free rein to order whatever he liked for breakfast from the service droid, and to top it all off, no-one had batted an eyelid when he programmed another two all-purpose droids to struggle to the archives and back with a veritable mountain of holo-books.

Obi-Wan is the most pampered patient under the Healers' care, to be sure. But he is in no way satisfied with his situation.

The caff was…caff. _Ugh._ He had wanted tea with breakfast, but the droid had returned with a stewing cup of hot leaf juice seemingly squelched from the dregs of unrefined deathsticks. Obi-Wan had taken a sip, gagged, and spat the liquid onto the floor at the precise moment Master Vokara Che came in for his morning checkup. Practically burning from the fire-like severity of her gaze, he had bowed his apology until his head threatened to drop off and then mopped up the mess himself. Hence, his delayed breakfast had been somewhat muted. The atmosphere in his room plummeted to dejection when he found that the drugs had completely shut off his taste buds. There he was, dining regally on muja sherbet, a small part of a morning feast that would have given Crèche Master Ali-Alann a stroke if he had known about it – and Obi-Wan might as well have been eating plain ice.

So now in the afternoon, he is ever so slightly uncentered as he attempts to lose himself in the philosophical writings of Jedi Master Vodo-Siosk Baas. The solace he so desperately seeks evades him in the shimmering Aubresh lines of history, teaching and order. An inexplicable sense of _wrongness_ still writhes in his gut. On Ilum, when the Force had sung to him and directed his movements, there had been a moment when something _Dark_ shifted in his vision. Obi-Wan had sensed nothing afterwards, not when he woke to find himself swaddled in cloaks in the ship's tiny medbay, Qui-Gon Jinn unconscious on the bunk opposite. When questioned, the others had expressed surprise, as they had felt nothing themselves. Garen had further moaned about the difficulties of piloting the ship over the rear courtyard of the citadel and the combined effort of the other four in Force-lifting Master Jinn and Obi-Wan up the hovering ramp.

A tiny grin flickers over his face, though, when he recalls what they had to do in order to fix an oxygen mask to Qui-Gon's face. The grin turns into a frown when he considers the possible consequences.

Qui-Gon would not be too irked, surely? Shaving off his beard had been _necessary._ The amusement derived from wielding the razor himself is entirely another matter. And when Master Jinn does bring it up, Obi-Wan would simply quote that _Jedi do not form unnecessary attachments._

Master Qui-Gon Jinn.

_Master._

Some small part of Obi-Wan – the instinctive, natural twelve-year-old part of his mind unaffected by his lengthy training – wonders whether he had dreamt Qui-Gon's words. The Force had been roaring in his ears and his lightsaber crackling with fire in his hand, and so Qui-Gon's first whispered "_Padawan,"_ simply seemed too good to be true.

And then there was the matter of the connection. It could not be a _Master/Padawan_ bond, surely? Garen had subjected Obi-Wan to many tales of how his fledgling bond with Master Clee Rhara had slowly grown, tendril by tendril. Obi-Wan had never heard of a connection formed as quickly as that shining, glowing thread of pure energy between him and Qui-Gon before. Was it some unknown quirk of the Force, forged to aid Qui-Gon's rescue?

Even now, when Obi-Wan reaches for the nub of the anchor in the back of his mind, the bond stretches off into the unknown, like a golden rope frayed into unpolished wire leading into murky darkness. He cannot sense Qui-Gon at all.

Of course, by the time Obi-Wan realises he has spent the last half hour brooding intensely instead of reading, he has already managed to give himself a splitting headache.

It is a combined effect of migraine and drugs that render his Force-sensitivity low enough so that he does not see the thundercloud in the Force coming when he should have.

Bruck Chun explodes into Obi-Wan's room like a brazen Besalisk drunk on his own self-importance. "Hello, mute boy," he drawls, flashing a dangerous smile at Obi-Wan. At Obi-Wan's glare, Bruck steamrolls on, relishing in his own voice. Especially since the other boy has none. "Don't bother replying. I won't ask anything of you that will exceed your capabilities."

Obi-Wan's lips thin into a white line. He raises a hand, waves open the door, and motions.

Bruck barely turns his head. Instead, his smirk reaches new heights of narcissism as his head of white hair shakes with his head. "Oh, no, Oafy. I'm going to _impinge on your hospitality_ for a while longer." He stalks closer. "Was that _eloquent_ enough for you? What I don't understand," he mutters angrily, "is how you suck up to all those masters without saying anything."

He gets a stony, emotionless face in return, but the gentle rhythm of Obi-Wan's heartbeat sensor erupts into a quickening frenzy.

A satisfied sneer. Bruck Chun is the son of a ruthless politician and every bit as slimy as his father. He knows when he has a tactical advantage, and he exploits it with purest enjoyment. "So. Not the perfect _initiate_ after all." The rank is flung across the few feet between them, emphasised insultingly.

Obi-Wan simply points at the empty space by his ear where a padawan braid would swing, reverses his wrist, and jabs a finger at the other boy's ear, where there is a similar hollow, waiting to be filled, or never.

Bruck's bleached eyebrows meet in a furious grimace. Somehow, Obi-Wan does not think he likes being out-talked by someone who cannot speak. "I may be still an initate for now," Bruck grinds out slowly, his resentment bleeding into the Force like an open wound. "But not for long. There's another tournament tomorrow. I heard the others say that Master _Qui-Gon Jinn_ will be there. You've been playing the hero, but I'm going to show him what I can do. And then I'll be his padawan, and you'll be shipped off to the ag-corps."

Obi-Wan stares at Bruck for the longest moment, the Force addled around him.

Of all the reactions that Bruck Chun must have expected Obi-Wan to give, he did not expect Obi-Wan to fold over, shoulders shaking. For an instant, he looks as if he is sobbing; but a sudden wheezing noise fills the chamber, and Obi-Wan leans back on his pillows, racked with fits of silent laughter.

"Why're you _laughing?_" the white-haired boy splutters. "What are you – I mean how–"

_Bruck, Qui-Gon's Padawan!_ Obi-Wan fights down another round of insane giggles. It is actually quite entertaining, imagining what Qui-Gon's reactions to most of Bruck's usual stunts would be. The most favourable includes the image of a flexible switch. Qui-Gon would _tan Bruck's hide_ for his insolence. Given that most of Bruck's taunts are directed towards Obi-Wan's sense of self worth, this subject is perhaps the most ironically idiotic he could have chosen as an attempt on Obi-Wan's emotions.

Confused and out of his depth, Bruck falls back onto what he knows best: anger.

And Obi-Wan, clutching his aching sides in paroxysms of mirth, chooses this _particular _moment to fill the Force with a particular jesting sentiment that was most decidedly _not_ taught to him by the revered masters of the Jedi Order.

And then Bruck's fist is clenched at the neck of Obi-Wan's medical gown, and his other poised to strike. "It looks like the lesson I taught you outside the hangar didn't sink in," Bruck snarls, jealousy emanating off him in pulses. "When I'm done with you, you're going to have more to worry about than being mute."

Obi-Wan's eyes had widened momentarily, but all of a sudden, grey shields dance into place over those variegated irises, veiling a hidden sort of glee. One hand rises, from where it was clamped around Bruck's wrist, to point over his shoulder.

Someone clears his throat behind him. A cool, calm voice bisects the silence like a _cho mai_ 'saber strike, cleaving the very air in two with a solid blade of light.

"And just what lesson were you going to teach Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon Jinn asks pleasantly, folding his hands into the sleeves of his new cloak. His vibrant blue gaze burrows into Bruck's like blood-laced icicles. Obi-Wan finds the muscles in his cheeks pulled into an uncontrollable smile.

If Bruck's Force-signature had exuded fear before, now it positively explodes in unrestrained terror and disbelief. His hand trembles where it is still fisted loosely at Obi-Wan's throat.

Qui-Gon paces lightly over to them, his gait easy and unhindered, carrying a hidden threat. A stray thought flashes across Obi-Wan's mind that Qui-Gon's movements resemble, above all, an Asharl Panther circling in to kill.

Bruck steps back uncertainly, eyes flashing from Master to Initiate and back. All it takes is one tilt of the head from Qui-Gon for him to throw himself into a full kowtow to Obi-Wan, muttering quickly, "_I should not have said those unpleasant words to you and I am deeply sorry."_

Obi-Wan secretly contemplates that the noise Bruck's head makes as it bangs into the floor with each kowtow is quite refreshing.

But Qui-Gon is not done. "Is that all?" he comments airily. He might as well have been asking about the weather.

Bruck shakes his head violently, and resumes his breathless apology. "I also apologise for the incident outside the hangar." He turns on his knees to Qui-Gon, pleading in supplication."I shamed my training and am unworthy of the title of Jedi."

Qui-Gon is relentless. He stares down at the shaking boy at his feet coolly, as if Bruck were a Hutt child pouring slime over his boots. "Yes," he murmurs. "I believe you are right. You are in no manner worthy to bear the title of Padawan, and your actions shame the entire Order."

Obi-Wan begins to frown. As amusing and satisfying it is to watch Bruck give his long-awaited apology, something about this entire debacle has him feeling slightly uncomfortable. Not that he _pities_ Bruck, but something about the manner in which the white-haired boy grovels seems _wrong_.

Qui-Gon's gaze flickers to meet Obi-Wan's for a moment, and his eyelids close, jaw clamping shut. Dragging seconds pass, Bruck's panicked half-sobs the only human sound except the medical sensors. Then the tall Jedi Master releases a long breath, opens his eyes, and growls shortly, "Out." The door slides open.

Bruck scampers away, doing the perfect impression of a beaten akk fleeing with its tail tucked between its hind legs.

Obi-Wan sinks further into his pillows, intimidated by the sudden silence. Qui-Gon is still facing the door, his back to the cot, and his heavy robes a feather-light weight on his broad shoulders. Obi-Wan winces as the machine by his bed announces his elevated heart rate once more.

When Qui-Gon speaks, his tone is light, jesting. "Afraid of me?" Sky-blue eyes twinkle humourously, entirely devoid of the ice that had frozen them mere minutes ago.

Obi-Wan immediately shakes his head, but turns it into a nod when Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow at him. The result is a completely unflattering mess of half-nods and half-shakes. He freezes, head held at an odd angle, when he realises how ridiculous he must look. Unconsciously, he pulls the blankets further up to his chin, appearing from all angles like a hawk-bat hatchling burrowing into snow.

Qui-Gon's mouth twitches, and laughter explodes out of him before his can do anything to stop it. And with every undignified chortle of mirth, the knot in his chest of bitterness and loss and sorrow that formed with his former padawan's betrayal loosens slightly. Qui-Gon Jinn laughs fully and wholeheartedly for the first time in eight long years.

A glance towards the cot reveals that Obi-Wan has pulled the blankets up past his nose, so that all that is visible of him are confused grey eyes and a mop of untidy brown spikes. Qui-Gon reaches over and gently pulls at the sheet until the entirety of Obi-Wan's face is visible again, and rubs at the boy's chin to stop him from chewing on his lip.

"Little one," Qui-Gon murmurs softly, "There are many things that I have to tell you, and explaining them might take a while. But it would help if you lowered your shields so we could access our bond."

Obi-Wan gives a start as he feels a presence prodding at his mental defenses. He knows by the moderate pressure on his shields that Qui-Gon could overwhelm them in half a second should he need to, but the older Jedi holds back, respecting Obi-Wan's mental privacy. He had not even realized that he had thrown up his defenses when Bruck barged in a while ago.

As Qui-Gon settles on a corner of the mattress, a furrow appears between Obi-Wan's brows as he consciously relaxes his mind, allowing the barriers to fall–

–and blinks in surprise as their bond flares to bright light between them, a solid river of thoughts and images and emotions. Obi-Wan reels in the flood of information, a hundred worlds flashing before his eyes. The current presses hard against his mind, and above all, the Force meanders through their joined consciousness, battering against his memories. His mouth opens soundlessly, and his eyes squeeze shut against the endless barrage, seeking to withdraw into a dark corner of silence.

And then a large, rough hand is warm on his brow, and a sudden presence surrounds him, diverting the flow of thoughts beside him like a rock parting water. _"I'm so sorry, Obi-wan,"_ Qui-Gon's calm voice echoes around him. _"I misjudged the strength of our bond. Use me as an anchor. Focus determines reality."_

Wading through decades of memories and thoughts that are not his, Obi-Wan grasps at the pure, solid star of Qui-Gon's Force-presence, gathering and focusing his mind, concentrating on the comforting steadiness of Qui-Gon above all else, anchoring himself on this island of new, yet familiar warmth. The torrent of images and emotion wavers, thins, and diminishes into a controlled current.

Obi-Wan lets out a breath that he did not realise he was holding, sucks in air greedily, and opens his eyes to find his hands fisted in Qui-Gon's tunics and his forehead covered by the Jedi master's callused hand. An odd emotion bounces across their bond towards Obi-Wan. Embarrassment that is not his own.

This is one of those rare times when Obi-Wan is glad that not a sound makes it past his lips, because he most certainly would have squeaked in horror should he have been able.

Qui-Gon's hand on his forehead slides down to his shoulder, pushing him back. It might be Obi-Wan's imagination, but the Jedi master's voice seems thicker than usual as he clears his throat. "Obi-Wan, before I formally ask you to be my padawan, I need to tell you something."

Obi-Wan nods, feeling the ventilated air cool his burning cheeks.

Qui-Gon's gaze is slightly distracted as he looks Obi-Wan in the eye. "The day before we left for Ilum, I had a…vision, of sorts." He senses the query in the Force, and a chuckle escapes him. "Well, by a vision, I mean a paltry two words. I heard a voice cry _'Yes, Master'_. The nature of the vision left me in no doubt that the words were from a future padawan of mine."

The boy's glance is bolt of inquisitive cerulean.

"Obi-Wan…" Qui-Gon says carefully, knowing exactly how ravaging this revelation could be for the silent initiate, "That voice was yours."

Obi-Wan jerks back, disbelief darting across their bond like a flock of thranctills across the Coruscanti night sky, fluttering between motes of light and jagged duracrete edges of shame.

"It was," Qui-Gon presses on, his shields fully lowered, _honesty_ glowing in every word. "And I know it seems impossible, but when you cut me out of the ice, I heard you clearly project those words across our bond. You did not speak into the air, but _I heard your voice_, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan is shaking his head now, tears threatening to start in his eyes. A puddle of unsure hope seeps into the Force.

"Listen." Qui-Gon searches within himself for the relevant memory, projecting the beautiful voice he had heard into Obi-Wan's mind. Obi-Wan shivers as he hears the words; he had wanted a voice that could comfort, the ability to be assertive, commanding, and humble all at once, the voice of a negotiator. The voice that he hears is all those in one; unknown, yet undeniably _his._ It is a voice that could break into song at any moment.

"Could you try speaking through the bond?" Qui-Gon suggests gently, folding his hand over the much smaller, shaking ones.

A breath of preparation. A whirlwind of pure energy and light masses at Obi-Wan's end of the bond, a concentration so fierce that Qui-Gon withdraws slightly, awed in spite of himself. The iridescent currents of the Force weave around them in incandescent branches, the two of them crystals in the fire, fueling its flames. Qui-Gon becomes aware of a muted melody of a duet flowing about their clasped fingers, twirling in a quickening rhythm up Obi-Wan's arms, circling his throat. The maelstrom of energy around Obi-Wan contracts, spinning ever faster and closer, clothing him in Light itself, the music sweeping up into a frantic crescendo of notes–

And frustration crashes into the Force like the shattered stones of a broken dam, the melody snapping and fading, their bond thrumming with the aftershock like a golden wire charged with the echo of a lightning storm.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, but there is nothing but silence, the calm after muted thunder.

Qui-Gon throws all thoughts against coddling into the Force, and raises a hand to brush away the solitary tear that slides down Obi-Wan's cheek, the last crystalline note of a broken melody. "It's fine, Obi-Wan," he says quickly, trying to fill the hollow quiet. "You did well."

Obi-Wan manages a watery grin in return.

"I don't need you to speak. I would be very grateful if you would simply listen." Qui-Gon is silent for a moment. A deep centering breath. "I will not find you at fault if you choose not to accept me as your master after this newfound knowledge about my past," he says emotionlessly. He runs a hand over his suddenly tired eyes; but he must do what needs to be done. Qui-Gon will not allow any initiate to become his padawan without knowing the weight of guilt on his master's shoulders.

And a master's guilt is his padawan's, also.

Obi-Wan's expression remains one of intent attention as Qui-Gon runs through his history as a Jedi, from his Knighting to present. Speaking of Xanatos so openly is like uncovering a half-healed scar, layer by layer, each recalled detail bringing a fresh wave of agony. He knows his guilt is evident in his voice, in every self-damning word dropped plainly from his lips, in the memories he lays bare to scrutiny across their bond. There is no reason Obi-Wan should bear the burden of his master's misdeeds. The hours pass unheeded.

"–and so I opposed the will of the Force and attempted to deny our growing bond. I am a fool, and an old, bitter one at that," Qui-Gon finishes, attempting a smile but not quite succeeding.

When the last sentence, word, and syllable are done, Obi-Wan remains blinking slowly as he absorbs the last of the knowledge. Then turns to Qui-Gon and gives him a stare that passes right through him, while the bond shimmers into a path of hand-spun transparent glass, fragile in its clarity.

It would only take a word to break.

And Obi-Wan gives a small shake of his head, smiling as he sends a succession of images across their bond. With each picture, the bond swells, growing, strengthening. Qui-Gon jerks as he sees himself through Obi-Wan's eyes. This painted picture of Qui-Gon is different; flawed, certainly, but steady, constant. Xanatos is but a quickly forgotten memory, inconstant and intangible as the twilight shadows at Qui-Gon's feet.

The blue-white twilight of Coruscant Prime, the brightest star in the Coruscant system, throws a golden bar of shining luminance through the window, casting both their faces in bronze. Qui-Gon breaks the silence with a bark of mirth, reaching forward to ruffle Obi-Wan's hair, which has turned into gold-streaked ochre in the fading light of day.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, would you assent to be my padawan?"

The silhouetted shadow of a young boy nods once, and although their shared smiles cannot be seen in the outline of sable, Master and Padawan know, for their bond sings strong between them.

"Thank you, Padawan mine. It is an honour."

The bond is forged; it is done.

(:~:)

The hemisphere of Coruscant plunges into night, the glittering stars carry a whispered message in the Force, passing from system to system faster than the turgid paths of hyperspace, a wave of luminance that sweeps across the legions of stars like a breath of wind across the silvered grass of the galaxy.

On Telos IV, dawn is a thin line of red on the horizon as a single hooded figure lowers his fur-lined hood, still lined with ice from Ilum. He collapses onto one knee on the landing pad, clutching his head, as the last frayed fronds of a long-forgotten training bond snap and wither, corroded from light years away.

The man gasps as his mind echoes with solitude. His last connection to his former master is gone. He has been _replaced_.

Xanatos DuCrion folds one hand into a fist on the cold duracrete as he forces himself to stand, the first bright rays of dawn striking the circled scar on his cheekbone, setting it afire with new blood.

(:~:)

**I'm rather happy I can bring in Xanatos now. He remains one of my favourite characters to play with, simply because he's such an egomaniacal idiot. But egomaniacal idiots with power apparently hold some weight, so we can expect some trouble soon. Please tell me what you thought of this chapter. See you all later!**


	8. Braiding and Upbraiding

**Over 5800 words. I needed to fit more into this chapter, because Tahl had to turn up sometime. I'm mentally knackered, but hey, I'll do anything for my lovely readers. A huge thank-you to everyone who favourited, followed, and reviewed. A note, though: there's a reference in this chapter from chapter 2, The Council Meddles in the Rain, where Qui-Gon reads one of Obi-Wan's homework assignments. If you get confused during their conversation, go back to chapter 2 to clear it up.**

**Replies to guest reviews (and to people I was too lazy to PM – sorry):**

**ErinKenobi2893:**** No problem. I don't know what Xanatos's fate is going to be, but I've got plans. Thank you so much for your enthusiasm. Your review is partly the reason I wrote so much for this chapter.**

**Guest:**** *Hugs you back* Come on, your fics are probably excellent. I'd like to read them! You don't have to hide from me by reviewing as a guest! PM me a link to your fics if you want to!**

**Crazy:**** Yeah, I don't really know anything about the Stark Hyperspace War either, only that Quinlan changed after it. Thanks for the continued reviews.**

**SWfanfan****: Thank you for all the reviews! Xanatos is one conflicted soul, if you ask me. I think he would cling to a small part of his past, no matter how much he claims to hate it. Why would he try to target Qui all the time if he didn't? Oh, and the Obi and Darth Vader feels. T_T**

**Link:**** I try to update every three days or so. Thanks for tracking this fic even though you don't have an account – I remember how annoying it was to do so before I started writing, myself.**

**Fanfic Lurker:**** I'm killing myself setting up plot points here, that's what. Messers Chun and DuCrion are very hard to get right without being cliché. Argh. Hope you like this one. XD**

**Guest 2:**** Tahl's in this one! :P**

**And here is the monster chapter. It's monster because I last posted 2 days ago. :P**

**(:~:)**

Only very rarely does the Jedi Council begin a morning with such anticipation of good cheer. Indeed, Yoda confers quietly with Master Yaddle as the morning light shortens their already small shadows, his grumbling chuckle less of a growl today and more of a self-satisfied snicker. Well, as close to a snicker as _Yoda_ could be expected to produce. Plo Koon and Saesee Tiin banter light-heartedly on their right, joined sporadically Even Piell's short, barking laughter. The twelve red-cushioned chairs are filled one by one, their occupants greeting each other warmly.

Mace Windu settles himself comfortably into his seat, the perfect personification of the Jedi Code, all muted power and elegance as he glares penetratingly at the floor over his steepled fingers. Others may view his lack of participation in the conversation around him as an attempt to conserve the stoic and proper image of the head of the Jedi Council; but in reality, he stares at the circular flower of harmony etched into the marble floor in an effort to stop a wild smile from stretching across his cheeks. He is not completely successful.

_By the Force._ He is a Jedi master, second-in-command to _Grand Master Yoda_, but the childish hilarity bubbling up within him is unworthy of even the youngest padawan. Already, his lips are twitching uncontrollably, in anticipation of the sheer enjoyment the first meeting of the day would bring. Oh, he had been waiting for this moment for years – for Qui-Gon to throw off his burdened cloak of bitterness and guilt and serve the order with the same unrestrained joy he used to. Despite his emotionless façade, Mace Windu is happy for his old friend.

And it would be _so_ entertaining to prove himself right after months of thinly-veiled arguments in this very chamber. Since Qui-Gon would be coming the Council with a request of his own, Mace would have the most excellent opportunity to play the generous, understanding master, all the while flinging the hidden words _I told you so_ into that old desert djinn's face.

If he were some rich politician instead of a Jedi master, Mace Windu would probably be rubbing his hands together, cackling with unrestrained glee. A pity. He would have to settle for the Jedi equivalent – fry that ignorant gundark alive with words, and then roast him in the senior level dojo later.

"Control yourself, Master Windu," Yoda chortles as he hops up onto his seat.

"Of course, my master," Mace replies easily. "First item on the agenda?" he calls to the gathered Council.

Adi Gallia turns perceptive brown eyes to him, and says simply, "Jinn."

"Well, let's get this unpleasantness over with," Mace sighs wearily, hoping that his emotions are not too evident in his carefully blank gaze.

The most-recently promoted member of the Council stares coolly right back at him, her cream head-tresses swinging.

He turns away from her glance and towards the gilded double doors. _Muahahahaha._ Vapaad had its benefits. He could relish in defeating an opponent, as the Light laughs along with him. Mace hides his grin behind a contemplative hand to his chin, waiting for his victims to enter the lair.

(:~:)

Obi-Wan stares curiously up at Qui-Gon as the turbolift rockets them up the central spire of the Jedi Temple, the dawn light casting their faces in half-shadow. The walk from the Healers' wing had taken longer than expected, due to Obi-Wan's half-healed feet. Fortunately, the tall Jedi had backed him up when he adamantly refused the hover-chair the droids pressed upon him. Now, however, the stinging ache in the pads of his feet is enough to make him doubt the intelligence of his decision.

Obi-Wan shakes himself back to the present. Qui-Gon is saying something. "Obi-Wan, you do not need to participate in this Council session unless asked directly," Qui-Gon states plainly, his eyes burning a hole in the durasteel doors of the turbolift. "I shall deal with the…unpleasantness, myself."

A question floats to the surface of Obi-Wan's thoughts, and he quashes it down quickly before it can transmit across their bond. Nevertheless, Qui-Gon's chin flicks down toward him. Amusement emanates from the larger Force-presence like warm light from a glow-bulb.

"The Council is worthy of _respect,_" Qui-Gon says, at length. "I am not required to offer more than that."

Obi-Wan nods affirmation as a computerised voice announces their arrival at the top of the spire. The doors slide open, and Obi-Wan halts mid-step as the view spreads itself out on both sides of the waiting lobby. His mouth drops open.

The whole of Coruscant seems spread out in a gently curving arc, miniscule figures of aircars and public hovercraft scattered over the shining levels like insects on silver water, the dawn light skimming across the surface in solid bars of gold. And like the half-mirrored pane of an ocean, the city-planet is seemingly bottomless; level after level it descends, deep gorges and shallower reefs clinging to obsidian towers, ethereal in their beauty and harsh in their jagged edges. Larger interstellar ships split the currents of aircraft, Nabooian Gooberfish that blot out the light of Coruscant Prime in hulking silhouettes. Some distance away, the sleek shapes of senatorial yachts gather around the Senate dome like shoals of Skekfish. It strikes Obi-wan that it is quite the apt simile; Skekfish are blind, sharp-sided and hunt in relentless groups, much like the politicians themselves.

And then a warm hand is on Obi-Wan's shoulder, and a finger under his chin, closing his slack jaw. "Focus, young one," Qui-Gon murmurs, smiling. The very same words that he first said to a crècheling Obi-Wan mere days ago.

The two of them cross the short expanse of larmalstone floor to the waiting doors, an adult Aiwha leading its hatchling in their first flight across the endless ocean of Coruscant.

(:~:)

The moment his boot comes into contact with the floor of the Council Chamber, Qui-Gon knows that the battle has already been decided. The Force is awash with humor, the twelve furled Force-signatures that make up the council shimmering with the emotion. He is half-blinded by the light streaming in through the wide windows. The smallest of frowns draws his mouth into a line. _So this is their move._

But two can play this game, so Qui-Gon bows deeply at the waist, sensing Obi-Wan follow suit. Then they wait for the Council to speak.

Mace Windu is the first to break the silence. _Of course._ "What brings you before the Council today, Master Jinn?" he asks innocently. The effect is somewhat ruined by the glittering victory in his eyes, and the way they rake over Qui-Gon's shaven chin in amusement.

Qui-Gon acknowledges this first strike with a bow of the head. _Mace, you manipulative gundark. So you want me to state what you already know. _He stands firm in tradition, and declares formally, "I come before the Council to inform you, masters, that I wish to take Obi-Wan Kenobi as my padawan learner." He is treading a thin line of barest respect here – to _inform_, not request.

But Master Windu snaps the line as effortlessly as the gesture that accompanies his reply. "The Council will consider your _appeal_, Master Jinn. But before we do, I believe there remains a few answers you owe us."

A short silence. "And what may those be?" Qui-Gon inquires pleasantly, his cheeks aching with the effort of not scowling.

"Would you care to explain the sudden reversal in your stance in regards to our suggestion that you take another padawan?"

Qui-Gon's Force-presence flares slightly, but the cool blue tendrils retract an instant later. When he speaks, he is the picture of utter calm. "The Force commanded me to do so. And the Force, as we all know, always offers wise counsel." _As opposed to the _other_ particular source of authority._

The Force crackles in reprimand. Yoda frowns, his gimer stick contacting the side of his chair with a sharp _crack._ Apparently, he sensed Qui-Gon's silent addition to his spoken words, and his displeasure fills the very air with sparks of energy. "Test the Council, you must not, Master Jinn."

Obi-Wan stiffens slightly beside Qui-Gon.

An apologetic tone. "Yes, my master." _Insufferable green troll._

But Qui-Gon's answer is insufficient to placate Yoda. The Grand master's large emerald eyes snap in irritation. "Say will of the Force this is, do you?" he growls, his already-lined brow furrowing further.

Qui-Gon nods. "Yes, I do. So you see–"

"See, _we_ do. See, you do not," Master Yoda huffs, raising his stick to point accusingly at Qui-Gon's equally sharp gaze. His next words are softer, more sorrowful. "Blind, you are."

Qui-Gon opens his mouth to reply, but no words come. Had he not admitted this to himself? He clamps his jaw shut, seething.

"Saw great suffering in you, the Council did," Yoda continues, his voice less rough but no less reprimanding. "And so recommended that you take a padawan. And will of the Force, it was." He presses on, not giving Qui-Gon a chance to reply. "Defy only the _Council_, you did not. You defied the Force itself."

The Council starts, murmuring. Mace Windu shifts in his seat. He is not enjoying this quite as much as he thought he would.

Qui-Gon remains silent for the longest while, head bowed, the Force an inconstant, roiling sea around him, held back by walls of pure will. Then a drawn-out breath leaves his lips, and he meets Yoda's gaze full on. "I beg the forgiveness of the Council." The words are heavy as they fall out of him, but with each breath, he seems to straighten further, an unseen burden leaving his shoulders. "I realised this myself, on Ilum." His gaze strays to Obi-Wan, whose eyes are wide as they stare up at him, finally understanding. "Yes. I feared to take another padawan. I feared failure, and I did not trust myself or the Council." Qui-Gon bows, closing his eyes. "For that, I owe you an apology, my masters. I still have much to learn."

Throughout the confession, Obi-Wan blinks up at Qui-Gon, his mouth slightly open in awed surprise. His expression turns to mortified horror, though, when at a motion from Yoda, Qui-Gon pivots smoothly to bow to Obi-Wan. It is not the deepest of bows, but the entire _idea_ of a master, let alone _his_ master bowing to him is inconceivable.

"I owe you an apology as well, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says clearly. There is no jest in his motions or his words. "I acted in a–"

Obi-Wan reaches out and touches Qui-Gon's sleeve, shaking his head once to show his understanding. As the Jedi master straightens, Obi-Wan bows in return, taking his bow far deeper than Qui-Gon's.

Then he turns back to the Council, his cheeks practically glowing scarlet in the early morning light. Qui-Gon faces forward again, but his gaze slides over to Yoda.

A flicker of a smile passes over Yoda's lined features as he watches this exchange. "Hmm," he mutters grumpily. "Resolved, this is. Speak of it no more."

Two heads incline toward the aged master.

Mace Windu leans forward, a grin of his own threatening to break his ineffectual mask. "Now that this is resolved, we can address the matter of Initiate Kenobi."

"Accept Master Jinn as your master, do you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?" Master Yoda wades into Mace's impending monologue with all the subtlety of a rambling bantha. Quite an achievement for one so physically small. Master Windu pulls up short, blinks once, and acquiesces.

Obi-Wan nods enthusiastically. He usually would have dispensed of eagerness in favour of calm poise, but he is beginning to understand why Master Qui-Gon hates Council sessions so much. He'd much rather get it over with quickly. Qui-Gon stares openly at him, confusion flitting across his beardless face. Where is that cultured young boy he met in the crèche?

"Vell, vell, I think ve have heard enough," Master Even Piell rasps, flashing his terrifying scarred grin at Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan smiles back uncertainly, not quite knowing how to respond to the tiny fearsome Jedi.

"Yes. Seen enough, we have." Yoda's gnarled voice is already growing more distant. "Approve of the match, the Council does. Begone with the two of you." But his sly, unwavering gaze suggests he sees more to their actions than he reveals.

"Thank you, Councillors," Qui-Gon murmurs, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. As one, master and padawan bow to the circle of the Jedi Council.

And if they take their leave with undue haste, the Council pretends not to notice. A Jedi knows when to retreat.

As the doors close, Mace Windu is not the only member of the Council who makes his mirth known. The Council Chamber echoes with the unhindered chuckles of the twelve highest-ranking representatives of the Jedi Order, and Master Yoda's among the loudest.

(:~:)

It hasn't really sunk in yet for Obi-Wan that he is a padawan. _Qui-Gon's_ padawan. He shuffles in a daze behind his master's billowing cloak, the familiar halls of the Temple blurring strangely behind the sudden moisture in his eyes. He isn't going to be shipped off to the agri-corps. He would no longer have to sit numbly in the crèche, the oldest child there by years, counting the days to his thirteenth birthday with trepidation and shame in his heart. And in Qui-Gon, there is finally a person to which Obi-Wan can speak to in images and emotions, without the need of stylus and flimsy.

And then a thought slams into his chest like a solid wall of euphoria, leaving him breathless with elation. _I'm going to be a Jedi._ Long years of training still await, but his future is less clouded. The ache in his feet is worse than ever – and his smile could split the sky.

Qui-Gon spares his increasingly wayward apprentice a glance, breathes a sigh, and motions at a stone bench set in an alcove. Hesitantly, Obi-Wan follows, unsure of his master's intentions.

With the solidarity of the smooth grey marble beneath them and the warm wall at their backs, Qui-Gon removes a canister of paste from within the folds of his robes and directs Obi-Wan to remove his boots. Obi-Wan does so confusedly, but arrests his motions when he acquires an inkling of what is about to happen. He shakes his head vigourously, waving a hand at the metal container that Qui-Gon carefully opens.

"Padawan." Qui-Gon's tone brooks no argument. "Your feet have yet to completely heal. The pain is distracting you from the present. Seeing as levity is already doing a marvellous job of unfocusing you, I am seeking to remove the second source of distraction."

Now blushing with embarrassment, Obi-wan removes his last stocking and wiggles his toes, wincing as he does so. Angry red lines crisscross his sole.

"And there we have proof," Qui-Gon says wearily, but not without a twinkle in his eye. "Willow root balm," he answers Obi-Wan's unspoken question. The lid opens to reveal a sharp-smelling paste. "You are not the first _very_ young apprentice I have had to work with," Qui-Gon murmurs with a smile. "I took precautions by asking Master Avarin for this before we left the Healers' wing."

The Jedi master's fingers are surprisingly gentle as they smooth balm over the soles of Obi-Wan's feet. The head of gold-brown spikes shakes as Obi-Wan giggles silently. It tickles. Qui-Gon notices, for the first time, that he cannot see Obi-Wan's lightsaber anywhere. The boy must have hidden it in his tunics, to appear submissive before the Council. Obi-Wan has once again surprised him with his ability to think ahead.

As Qui-Gon works, he branches off into a different topic. Only a mask of control separates him from his burning curiosity being shown. He has wanted to have this conversation with the boy for quite some time. "Obi-Wan, what are your opinions on the abandonment of negotiation in favour of a more direct approach to conflict?"

Obi-Wan jerks slightly, thrown off by the abruptness of the question. Perceptive grey-blue eyes narrow slightly. He mimes writing something, and then jabs a finger accusingly at Qui-Gon's eyes. He points to the imaginary sheet of flimsy on his lap.

"Yes, my very young padawan. I read your homework assignments." Qui-Gon smiles slightly at the muddled emotions seeping across their bond. Apprehension is at he forefront. Obi-Wan is worried about the quality of his work. Qui-Gon hides a private musing that _quality_ should be the least of Obi-Wan's worries. "I was very interested in your argument against aggression regarding the Jedi master who boarded a pirate vessel in the Mandaorian Road blockade fourteen years ago." Having finished spreading medicine Obi-Wan's left foot, he moves on to the other without preamble. "Am I right in thinking that your opinion is unchanged?"

Obi-Wan nods slowly. Qui-Gon can almost sense the cogs whirring in his head as he tries to work out the meaning of this lesson.

"So you still believe that the use of force was dangerous, then." Qui-Gon glances up to meet Obi-Wan's curious gaze. "And what if I told you that the pirates intended to torch the capital of New Mandalore after their terms were met?"

Impossibly, Obi-Wan's eyes grow even wider. Qui-Gon watches as his apprentice blinks a few times, absorbing this new piece of information, and then points at him, mouth falling open in denial.

"Yes, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says cheerily. "_I_ was the unnamed Jedi master in question." Seeing his padawan's face collapse in stunned horror, Qui-Gon represses a chuckle. "I will not fault you for arguing your opinion, Obi-Wan." A sly smile. "I will only encourage you to _change_ it."

Obi-Wan gapes up at him, completely disarmed before he even knew the verbal duel had begun.

"Close that cavern of yours," his master murmurs. "It is unflattering." Obi-Wan clamps his mouth shut and folds his hands into opposite sleeves, back straightening as he assumes the perfect image of the model student. Qui-Gon's lips twitch with mirth. "Now," he says airily, "Would you _again_ rethink your position on this matter if I told you that further to the pirates' intention to destroy the capital, they were holding a prominent politician and his family hostage on their ship?"

No response. Obi-Wan seems frozen.

"The family in question had a very small child with them," Qui-Gon continues, blasting Obi-Wan's denial into smithereens with the subtlety of a plasma gun. "This two-month old baby, Satine Kryze, would undoubtedly have joined the Force at a very early age if I had not intervened."

Obi-Wan's hands shake slightly in his voluminous sleeves. He bows his head once to his master. Contrite sorrow dances across their bond. Qui-Gon pauses for a moment before sending a wave of acceptance towards his apprentice. Obi-Wan nods his thanks, his cheeks burning with shame.

"Do not be overly affected by this revelation, Padawan," Qui-Gon sighs. "The Archive report was simply a shortened version of the actual events, and lacking in certain points. The full report was for Council eyes, only. Master Yaddle decided that amending it would teach restraint to the younger initiates who read it." A sigh. "Focus determines reality. You could not focus on the problem the same way I did, because you were not there. Reality is very different from recorded history."

The willow root balm is concealed once more, its lid firmly secured, and hidden away in Qui-Gon's robes again, like the conversation that flowed between them. "Let us speak no more of this," he says softly. "The lesson has been learnt, yes?"

His padawan nods, averting his gaze. Qui-Gon's warm hand shakes his shoulder gently. "Do not brood over this, young one."

Obi-Wan turns back to his master in a dramatic reversal, a smirk flitting over his young features. A finger jabs at Qui-Gon's chest again. _You do._

Qui-Gon is supremely unaffected. "I reserve the right to do what I wish. I am very nearly four decades your senior."

They resume their slow progress towards the crèche, Qui-Gon's hand remaining on his padawan's shoulder. Their first lesson is complete, but Obi-Wan was not the sole student.

(:~:)

Obi-Wan's box of worldly possessions is appropriately small for an initiate of the Order, following the Jedi Code against materialism. Something in Qui-Gon still jerks slightly when he glimpses the collection of trinkets and aircraft models that would not have looked out of place in a junk heap. But the manner in which Obi-Wan hugs the box to his chest is reveals its importance to him.

"Through here," Qui-Gon says, flicking a finger at a tenth-level residential corridor. The floor is inlaid with textured brown stone here, warm and homely. Qui-Gon takes a few steps, then notices his apprentice is lagging behind. A glance over his shoulder exposes the grimace across Obi-Wan's face as he navigates the uneven ground, mincing slightly on his bruised feet.

Qui-Gon dithers for a moment, analysing the pros and cons of his next actions, and decides reserve can all go to sith-spawned Nal Hutta Dark, for all he cares. Obi-Wan's mouth opens in a soundless yelp as his master hooks one hand around the back of his belt, lifts him off his feet, and relieves him of his box. Qui-Gon settles Obi-Wan's possessions comfortably on one shoulder, raises his other hand to the right height, and sets off down the corridor with his new burdens.

Obi-Wan's arms and legs flail about for a moment, then swing gently with his master's steps. He is quite glad his head is hanging upside down and the blood rushing to his face, for that gives him excuse for the scarlet shade of his cheeks. His pride is not dealing well with being hung off the back of his belt like a hatchling, his arms and legs dangling uselessly toward the patterned floor.

An explosive guffaw erupts from the other side of the corridor, and Obi-Wan turns his head, with some difficulty, to blink at the upside-down images of Siri Tachi and Bant Eerin. The two initiates nearly fall against each other with the effort of maintaining their composure, and as a result their bows to Qui-Gon are upset by their shaking shoulders.

Qui-Gon inclines his head in return, the motion setting Obi-Wan's limbs swaying again and reducing the two girls to tears of mirth. Obi-Wan feels his reputation drift away, never to be seen again. _Sithspit. Force-forsaken Dark sithspit._ He can never look Siri in the face again.

His master seems to be enjoying his padawan's misery just a little too much. "Pride is not the Jedi way, Obi-Wan," he says lightly.

Obi-Wan watches as his two friends disappear around the corner, their laughter still echoing in air and Force alike, and accepts his inevitable fate as Master Qui-Gon Jinn's new padawan.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon waves open the door to his quarters – _their_ quarters – with a very frivolous use of the Force, but with both his hands occupied, it is really the only sensible choice. Obi-Wan's limbs fan out in a circle as Qui-Gon turns to place the box on a chair, swinging his apprentice with the motion. The chamber whirls in a dizzying sphere as his master places him on his feet again.

When his vision has stopped spinning, Obi-Wan blinks at his surroundings. He hadn't quite known what to expect, as his new master is not the most _traditional_ of Jedi. As such, he is unprepared for the individuality of the rooms themselves. Two small, earth-brown couches face each other on one side of the room, divided by a simple low table of warm grey stone. A circle of white pebbles surround a navy-potted cactus at the table's centre. Twin meditation cushions sit like cream moons to one side of the couches. A wide hand-woven Gabal-wool rug covers the original bland floor, shimmering iridescent shades in the noon luminance pouring in through wide double windows, leading out onto a small light-drenched balcony. The silvered towers of Coruscant fade away to the west horizon past the polished rail. Obi-Wan turns to his right to find a larger table of Felucian wood, the worn knots and lines of growth in the grain itself giving the surface a natural glow. The small kitchen counter behind the four-chaired table is well stocked with hand-labeled containers of tea, gleaming metal and blue-painted stone. Several unfamiliar objects line the wall at the back of the counter, miscellaneous, but obviously of some memorable value to Qui-Gon.

The overall warmth of the room is lulling and comforting. It doesn't look like the lodgings of a Jedi. _It looks like home._

Qui-Gon does not comment, simply raising an eyebrow at the glimmer in Obi-Wan's eyes as he turns a circle.

"Your room is the smaller one at the end of the hall," he calls quietly, heating water to make tea.

Obi-Wan clasps his box to his chest and scampers eagerly past the door to Qui-Gon's bedroom – sneaking a glance to find it practical and bare – past the small 'fresher between his master's room and his own, and enters his new room with reverence.

_Hmm._ Blank walls, grey bunk, durasteel desk with standard-issue lamp. Obi-Wan grins, places the box onto his desk, and sets about making the room his own.

Qui-Gon has already set the table for lunch when his padawan emerges from his lair, beaming. "Wash your hands," Qui-Gon says, not looking up from the sink. Obi-Wan's footsteps pit-pat to the 'fresher and back just as quickly.

To Qui-Gon's eternal gratification, Obi-Wan does not scrape his chair across the floor when he settles into his seat. All it takes is a motion from his master for him to engross himself in his food, digging in with gusto. Qui-Gon watches his apprentice with a wry grin. He had forgotten the bottomless pits that are most young boys' stomachs.

"Drink your tea, Obi-Wan, before you choke yourself." Qui-Gon tilts his head slightly. The reserved initiate he saw on the flight to Ilum is gone. Obi-Wan seems to have put his uninhibited trust in his master. For some reason, this makes Qui-Gon feel lighter than he has for a long time.

But the manner in which Obi-Wan gorges himself is ever so slightly disturbing.

Though Qui-Gon _is_ glad to see that Obi-Wan automatically clears the table when they are done. In Qui-Gon's prior experience, padawans have the unfortunate requirement of needing to be house-trained, but Obi-Wan is apparently the exception.

A hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder stops him mid-motion. "Over here," Qui-Gon says quietly. He directs his padawan to kneel on one of the meditation cushions, and folds himself down opposite. Obi-Wan sits on his heels, following Qui-Gon's movements attentively.

"Lightsaber out."

The boy starts, new colour rising in his cheeks. Qui-Gon frowns at him, not understanding, but when his padawan removes his burnished 'saber hilt from a fold in his tunics, Qui-Gon smiles. And is somewhat flattered.

Obi-Wan must have spent the few precious hours between their talk in the galley and landing on Ilum modifying his 'saber designs in the ship's tiny work station. The curved metal and cap of his new 'saber echoes Qui-Gon's own lightsaber design, like a casted shadow flared with new ink.

At Qui-Gon's direction, Obi-Wan places his 'saber to the side, as does Qui-Gon with his own.

Qui-Gon reaches for the one longer lock of gold-streaked russet hair that hangs over Obi-Wan's right ear, parts the tuft into three separate strands, and begins to weave them together, a twisting pattern signifying the start of their road together as master and padawan. "The Master, the Padawan, and the Force," Qui-Gon murmurs, fingering each of three tresses. "Just as the braid does not begin with either of the three, neither does our path. The three of us walk as one. The Force binds teacher and student together; the Master follows the Force, the Padawan follows the Master, and the Force leads and serves them both. The path of a Jedi has no beginning or end, but the three walk it together."

A last winding, three lines verging into a seamless whole. A tiny purple bead slides onto the very end, above the binding. "Purple, for a lesson of courage taught from student to master," Qui-Gon chuckles. "A marker usually only earned at a much later time. You have already done well, Padawan." His fingers stroke the braid once, halting at the binding.

_Courage._ Obi-Wan shivers slightly as he remembers another Qui-Gon, from an age not yet come, who had raised his hand and fingered his braid in the exact same manner. _Courage,_ he had said._ For there is a long, hard, road ahead._ That Qui-Gon had smiled, and faded away into the icy catacombs of Ilum.

Obi-Wan folds himself into a full kowtow, thanking not only his master before him, but the one from the uncertain future.

Qui-Gon looks at Obi-Wan strangely for a moment, but a smile flickers across his face, and he bows his head in return.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon hit a wall around sunset that afternoon when he realises to no little horror that he was supposed to go over to Tahl's quarters for dinner, and it is his turn to cook. He had lost track of the days, given his injury and his new apprentice. Obi-Wan glances up from his tea, sensing the sharp spike of panic from his master. Uncertainly – for he is not completely used to the bond, yet – he sends a wave of curiosity over to Qui-Gon.

His master rubs a hand over his face and forcibly exudes calm into their bond. "Come over here, Obi-Wan," he says, more severely than he had intended. Catching himself, he softens his voice slightly. "You see this?" Qui-Gon hefts a large, inconspicuous metal pot from the shelf.

Obi-Wan nods, brow furrowing in bewilderment.

"This is The Pot." Qui-Gon emphasises the two words carefully. "As my padawan, there are a few things you need to know about this." Obi-Wan tilts his head, but nods seriously in answer. "You do not touch The Pot," Qui-Gon commands sternly. "You do not clean The Pot. You will not take The Pot from where I leave it without prior permission from either I or Master Uvain."

The moment Tahl's name is mentioned, a flicker of amusement dances in Obi-Wan's eyes. He gazes solemnly at The Pot. He understands completely – this must be some unknown advanced Jedi ritual known only to the most honourable masters.

Feeling slightly ridiculous, Qui-Gon continues nevertheless. "Each week, either Master Uvain or I will cook dinner in The Pot and bring it over to the other's quarters, where we will then eat. As my padawan, you will now be summarily included in this weekly tradition. I expect you to show the epitome of decorum at all times."

Obi-Wan nods yet again, hands clasped together in front of him, serious, wide eyes staring at The Pot as if it is some holy artefact. Which, Qui-Gon supposes, it might as well be.

The Pot clangs as Qui-Gon places it on the stove. "Now, on to your punishment," he says matter-of-factly.

Obi-Wan jerks from his awed stupor, turning to his master in shock. The questioning pulse dies on their bond as Qui-Gon looks coolly back down at him, one hand stroking his newly beardless chin.

_Ah. That._

"Now, in my day, a trespass of this magnitude would have resulted in _fifteen_ laps around the Temple perimeter," Qui-Gon declares nonchalantly. "But given the state of your feet, we shall instead teach you another valuable lesson." Obi-Wan nods morosely, hands fiddling behind his back as he waits for his doom to be pronounced.

But is doom is not what it seems. Qui-Gon smirks. "You will consent to my teaching you how to make the dinner I planned for tonight, memorise the recipe and method, and dictate it next week, along with a report on the nutritional value and field-work advantages of every ingredient. I also expect that the next time I require the same meal, you will make it to a satisfactory standard without any aid from my person."

Obi-Wan's mouth has fallen open again. But this time, his gape turns very quickly into a smile.

(:~:)

Tahl turned up outside their door at precisely seven hours after meridian, greeting Obi-wan warmly and raising an appreciative eyebrow at Qui-Gon's clean-shaven grin. Apparently, she had not wanted Obi-Wan to walk the distance to her quarters on his still-injured feet. Dinner was a spectacular affair – Tahl had this amazing quality of holding a conversation without Obi-Wan feeling left out – and Obi-Wan had eaten far more than Qui-Gon would ever have thought he would. A half-hour later, his padawan is asleep in his chair, cheek on the table, sunk deeply into a food coma.

"He's so adorable," Tahl whispers, tracing a finger over the tiny braid that barely touches the grain of the table. "You know, it really annoyed me that when I heard that you were awake and came to see you in the infirmary, you were obviously having one of your master/padawan talks and I didn't have the heart to interfere."

Qui-Gon pauses in the act of gathering up the dishes. "Tahl."

She looks up immediately, sensing the disquiet in his voice. "What is it?"

"I sensed something on Ilum," Qui-Gon says quietly. Tahl listens with rapt attention, hands folded over his, as he efficiently explains the Dark presence he felt, and the part it might have played in the Gorgodon attack and the avalanche.

"We don't know enough to say for sure," Tahl murmurs, afterward. "You should bring this to Master Yoda." Her voice is light, but her gold-green striped eyes are disturbed.

"Tahl, I…" Qui-Gon swallows. His throat is dry. "The presence felt familiar. I fear it might have been–"

"No," Tahl's face has set. "I'm always honest towards you, Qui. You know that. So I'll be blunt now – you can't let what happened to Xan weigh you down anymore. It might have been him on Ilum, but it could equally have been nothing. Don't brood over this any further. Find your answers tomorrow."

Qui-Gon nods wearily. Tahl's frankness is one of the many reasons he values her friendship so much. "Thank you," he answers. He rubs her hand once, then begins to stand.

"It's late. I should go," Tahl says softly, so as not to wake Obi-Wan. "_You_ should tuck in your pathetic life form."

"He needs to learn I won't coddle him," Qui-Gon jests in return.

"You'll do it anyway, so why bother living in denial?" Tahl whispers over her shoulder, hugging The Pot to her as the door hisses closed over her smile.

Qui-Gon sighs, and goes to do as he is told.

(:~:)

**A word to all the writers out there: I. Hate. Microsoft. Word. Grammar. I've lost count of the number of times it thinks a word doesn't exist. Apparently, 'label' can't be used as verb. My beta discovered that according to Word, 'slitted' doesn't exist either. It's just gone all red and wiggly-lined for me too. And so the software says it doesn't exist, while those five one-word sentences I've just written are supposedly perfectly acceptable. Why can't we have Obi-Wan design word-processing software? Everything would be peachy that way. That aside, DO tell me what you think of this longer chapter.**

**Next chapter: Qui-Gon finds answers to more than one question, Huei Tori's master is revealed, Kit Fisto winks up a storm, and Avarin returns. I'm EVIL. Muahahaha.**


	9. Falling Water

**As an apology for the week-long wait, I present you with a 6000 word chapter. I want to thank you all for the amazing response to the last chapter. I don't remember whether I've replied to everyone who reviewed last chapter, so if I didn't, drop me a PM or tell me in your next review so I can apologise profusely to you. A word about the plot – I've planned it all out, and Xanatos will be dropping in relatively soon. But I've got a mission planned first where he will be appearing, just not integrally yet. It IS a vitally important mission, though, so please bear with me.**

**And while a lot of you have been asking about when Obi will get his voice, I have planned that out as well so I beg your patience. It is a great device for emotion, so I intend to play around with it throughout the plot.**

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**Crazy:**** Long chapter again! Yay! Thanks for your reviews, by the way. I'm glad you like the humour.**

**Blue Jedi:**** Hey, thanks for reviewing! Sorry for the wait.**

**ErinKenobi2893:**** I love how you use these emoticons a lot :-P And yes. Voice-recovering will be a continuous thing, aiding Qui and Obi in building their friendship. And of course Obi's an angst-bunny! I'd out-talk him in any case, because he'd fall to decorum after a while, but I don't care. XD**

**Guest:**** Chockfull of thanks. XD**

**Queen Yoda:**** Avarin's hereeeee. XD And of COURSE I'm not going to kill Obi! Why kill him when there's so much opportunity for character development and angst! *evil laugh* Tahl will appear more later. I've got EVIL plans for Qui and Obi right now.**

**Fanfic Lurker:**** Giggles galore. Thanks for continuing to review, by the way. You're one of those reviewers I look for in opinion of each chapter.**

**Guest:**** The thing with the pot was spontaneous when I first created it. But yes, I love Tahl, and Tahl+Pot+Qui is the cutest thing.**

**mouse:**** Sorry? I don't follow the ants thing. Could you clarify?**

**Georgina:**** Oh! I'm sorry to hear about your back! I hope you get better soon, and I'll try to make you laugh with the funny things and the fluffy things. A big virtual hug from me and my beta. We'll both pray for you. XD**

**SWfanfan:**** And you WILL have more Mace. He's so enjoyable to write about. He is sassmaster and gloatmaster all at once. XD**

**Here we go.**

(:~:)

Obi-Wan floats on the gentle whispers of the Force, letting the current carry him every which way, cool and warm on his back. Amusement dances across his waking dreams, for the Force has never felt so comfortable. It envelops him in swathes of pure light, muffled and secure. In the strange, twisting paths between slumber and waking, Obi-Wan smiles at the lullaby eddying around him, every note a memory and binding it all together, a solid stream of light flowing out the back of his mind. The Force is positively _fluffy._

The stream of light gives a gentle tug on his consciousness, pulling him further up through the many layers of his dreams. Obi-Wan frowns and burrows deeper into the fey music of the Force. It isn't _fair_ of Master Ali-Alann to wake him so; the younger children of the crèche might need such a Force suggestion to wake, but_ Obi-Wan_ is too old for this, surely? Why, he is old enough to be a Padawan!

_Padawan._ A word reverberates loudly in Obi-Wan's groggy mind, the message shaking him awake as effectively as a physical hand in his hair. _Awake, Obi-Wan. The path of the Jedi is not that of a sluggard._ Qui-Gon's voice is tinged with amused admonishment, dancing across their bond.

Master Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan leaps off his pallet as if it were a bed of searing coals, flinging a glance at his chrono. It is early. _Very_ early. His surroundings freeze him on the spot for a moment; the blank walls covered by a few drawings, his gear piled by the small desk, starship models floating, suspended, from the ceiling. This is not the familiar warmth of the crèche; this is Obi-Wan's new room. Somehow, he had thought he would wake to the simultaneous yawns of his three roommates, to stumble out into the playroom and form up in an orderly line behind Ali-Alann.

The door slides open with a hiss, and a figure appears, of cream tunics, brown cloak, and stubbly grin. Qui-Gon Jinn tilts his head as he says wryly, "Ah, my very young padawan. I thought I would have to resort to actually dragging you out of your blankets by your ankle, but apparently that action is now unnecessary."

Obi-Wan glances at the window, where the slightest rim of scarlet over the reflected horizon in the towers below indicates the first foothold of daybreak. Coruscant is a refection of the indigo arch above, dotted with a few solitary stars, thrumming with a never-ending energy, but the patches of dark durasteel far outshine the lonely lights of those so early arisen.

Seemingly reading Obi-Wan's thoughts, Qui-Gon levitates a blanket over to him. "Meditation calms the mind and allows you to centre before whatever trials the day might bring." He turns back into the hallway. "You would do well to make it a habit."

Pulling on the blanket over his rumpled sleep clothes, Obi-Wan fights back a yawn and follows his master. He dearly hopes that Qui-Gon is joking; waking _every day_ at the sixth hour seems rather extreme. It is difficult enough keeping his eyes open now; Obi-Wan does not want to imagine continuing this process every morning for the next decade and a half.

But as they face each other in meditation, weariness drops off their limbs, like the many-layered silk of the sable sky peeling back from the dawn flames, diamond stars fading as the woven arch above fades from indigo to cobalt, azure to cerulean.

(:~:)

Having sent Obi-Wan off to his morning classes, Qui-Gon heads towards a single, solitary chamber set on its own separate tower, his strides calm and purposeful. No Jedi visited the inner sanctum of the most respected member of the Order without a careful intent. If Qui-Gon should linger in his footsteps, he is sure to receive a short stick strike across the shins for his lack of focus.

As always, the door opens without need for his touch, and the Force within the chamber is expectant. One could never expect to be able to _drop in_ on this particular room's occupant. The slatted windows throw thin bars of light motes across the dusty air, giving scant illumination to the grimy floor and the green gremlin sat there.

Master Yoda waves him onto the meditation cushion opposite with nary a spoken word, preferring to grunt humorously instead. Qui-Gon folds his tall frame onto the extremely undersized circular pad to wait.

And wait…

Yoda busies himself with tea leaves and two small, uneven clay cups, the earthy scent of Yarba tea crumbling between his gnarled fingers. After an indeterminable amount of time, the ancient Jedi master pours himself a cup of warm tea – pointedly ignoring the dry one in front of Qui-Gon – and growls pleasantly, "Questions you have, Master Jinn?"

Qui-Gon swallows past his dry mouth before he answers. The ridged edge of the too-small meditation cushion has long since pressed numb lines into his shins. "No," he replies. "I came to inform."

A throaty cackle explodes over the scent of Yarba tea. "Come to _inform_, have you? What of? Lived longer than I, you have?"

Impatience boils just under the surface of Qui-Gon's reserve. He wonders whether Yoda keeps his rooms in semi-darkness and provides such uncomfortable furniture simply for the sake of unbalancing his visitors. Somehow, Qui-Gon is not surprised. _But how should I respond?_ "I apologise, master," he relents. "I meant no insult."

Yoda spears him with a sharp green gaze before harrumphing good-naturedly and reaching for Qui-Gon's empty cup. "Good," he mutters as tea darkens the white clay. "Earned _this_, you have."

Qui-Gon accepts the tea with a gracious nod and takes a polite sip. He tries not to grimace. Yarba tea is about as far from his favourite, Sapir, as tea varieties get. "I sensed a disturbance on Ilum," he ventures, gagging slightly on the muddy taste of the liquid.

Yoda seems to derive infinite enjoyment from Qui-Gon's suffering, but he waves at him to continue.

In as few words as possible, Qui-Gon relates the events on Ilum, the clues toward sabotage and the shadowed presence he sensed moments before being buried. When he begins to describe the particular Force-signature, though, he pauses, unsure.

"Familiar, this presence was to you." Yoda apparently does not need Qui-Gon to explain further. The aged master displays his usual knack for knowing the other's thoughts. "Thought you recognised him, hmm?"

_Him. Xana–_

Qui-Gon breaks off the thought violently. "I do not know, master," he says carefully.

Yoda's next words fill Qui-Gon with shock. "Knew about this, I did," he sighs, tracing a pattern in his white cup with a clawed finger. "Ilum had dark secrets, the council knew. And for that reason, send you we did."

It takes two deep, centering breaths for Qui-Gon to bring himself back under control, and unclench his hands from around his tea cup. "Am I to understand," he begins slowly, softly, "That you sent a group of defenceless younglings to Ilum knowing full well that there was a threat on the surface?" His voice hangs taut between them.

Yoda waves Qui-Gon's fury aside as easily as the pale steam from the pot of tea. "Defenceless, they were not. Had you to protect them, they did."

"They were–" Qui-Gon forcibly halts his words, clenching his jaw. Something has just occurred to him. "This was about Obi-Wan, wasn't it." It is not a question.

A gravelly cough. "Will of the Force, it was."

"You gambled with the lives of five other younglings so I would take him as my padawan." He is hanging precariously off the edge of respect now. His hands are fisted on his knees.

"Enough," Yoda growls. That one word is sufficient to bring the weight of respect and authority down on the air, constricting the Force with its gravity. "Enough. Uncertain, the future is. Your former padawan, this dark presence may be. But clouded your perception is."

Qui-Gon dips his head into a bow. "My apologies, Master Yoda."

A hint of a chuckle. Out of place, but a welcome relief. "Hmmph. When news we have, talk of this, we shall."

Recognising the dismissal, Qui-Gon forces his stiff limbs into movement, standing and bowing deeply to the Grand Master. "Thank you for your counsel."

Qui-Gon is at the door when Yoda's parting words catch him like a strike to the heart. "Train your padawan well, Master Jinn," Yoda rasps. There is no trace of humour in his tone. "Save you, I cannot, if both your padawans Fall."

Words rise in Qui-Gon's throat, clawing for release. But his voice is quiet as the door begins to close. "I will, master," he answers, hoping that his uncertainty will not show in his voice.

(:~:)

By the time he reaches the Healers' Wing, Qui-Gon's aura is terrifying enough to send initates and young padawans alike scurrying out of his way like frightened hatchlings. He finds Avarin bent over an examination of some sort, his mane of silver-tipped sable hair tied back.

"Avarin." Qui-Gon greets him shortly.

The master healer does not reply immediately, his eyes flicking towards his visitor. "A very good morning you too," he mutters, raising an eyebrow at the annoyed tic that beats at the corner of his friend's temple. "You need a headache-reliever? You've paid a visit to the old troll again, haven't you."

"Yes." Qui-Gon is getting quite weary of being read so well. "And no, I do not require treatment. I came for– What _are_ you doing?"

"My job," Avarin returns carelessly, lifting another instrument. "But to appease your sympathy for pathetic life forms, this surgery is performed under sedation."

Qui-Gon stares at him incredulously, then down at the soggy mass of fur on the operating table. "It's a puppy," he states. "You're operating on a _puppy_."

"I'd have thought you would congratulate me on not being the heartless goblin you always said I was," Avarin retorts genially. "The padawan who brought me this wandering little bundle of joy was extremely serious in his desire to see it looked after."

Qui-Gon shakes his head. "I'm glad to see that I'm not alone in my beliefs."

Avarin straightens and removes his gloves, turning to the sink. "Naturally you wouldn't be, seeing as that padawan was _yours_."

A pause. "What."

A smirk. "Apparently, Obi-Wan was exempted from this morning's training exercises due to the condition of his feet. While the rest of his group ran laps around the temple perimeter, he was delegated the task of timekeeping by the back entrance. He found this little creature cowering by the gardens, and came immediately to me afterwards."

Qui-Gon returns Avarin's stare coolly. "Testimony to my good teaching."

Avarin snorts. "You've only been his master for a day."

"Proving the speed with which I influence the younger generation."

Unfortunately, Avarin is far too attuned to snark. "I have work to do," he sighs. "Did you cross the Temple simply to annoy me?"

The atmosphere sobers at once. When Qui-Gon speaks, all the jest is gone from his voice. "Obi-Wan."

"Ah. Perhaps you should come with me." Avarin heads towards his office, his dark harlequin tunic vibrant in a sea of healers' white. "Here," he murmurs, sliding his fingers over the surface of a datapad, reversing it and handing it to Qui-Gon. "This is his medical file from when he entered the Temple to present."

Qui-Gon's features are cast in aquiline ridges as the green light of the datapad pours between his fingers. Avarin watches as Qui-Gon's eyes widen, confusion flickering over his usually focused expression. "Avarin," he says slowly, "Does this mean…"

"As unbelievable as it is, yes." Avarin's fiercely intelligent eyes narrow. "There is nothing _physically_ wrong with Obi-Wan. There is no abnormality in his throat, his tongue, his vocal cords, or the nerves from his cortex. And yet he cannot speak. The crèche master in charge of him when he was a toddler first contacted me when he noticed that when Obi-Wan cried, he was silent."

"Then what could possibly cause this?"

"The Force." Avarin shakes his head. "I know it seems impossible, but the Force has _gagged_ Obi-Wan, from a certain point of view. A physical limitation would allow him to speak through a Force-connection, but this gag might prevent him from doing even that. Perhaps Obi-Wan must wait until the appointed time to vocalise."

"I think I've heard him speak," Qui-Gon says numbly.

"What?" Avarin's gaze turns sharp. "When?"

"On Ilum, when our bond was forged. I do not think he said it out loud. I heard him all the same." He does not attempt to keep the wonder from his voice. "However, when we returned, he could not replicate this feat."

"I cannot explain that." Avarin settles into his chair and plants his boots on the desk, folding arms. "I like to think that Obi-Wan has such a beautiful voice that it must be kept hidden, revealed only in the most precious moments, like the forging of a bond."

"I can't disagree with that." _Obi-Wan's voice was perfect._ A short silence, in which Qui-Gon lowers himself on the chair opposite and rubs at his face.

Avarin looks at the tall Jedi master over the tops of his boots, noting the small smile on his face. "What did he say?"

Qui-Gon cannot help giving a slight chuckle. "Yes, Master," he murmurs. "He said _'Yes, Master.'_"

Avarin does not say anything more. He respects his friend's privacy, and keeps this to himself.

(:~:)

The morning's classes had been…interesting, for want of a better word. Garen and Reeft had piled onto him in a tackling hug while Bant glowed happily beside them. Garen had then proceeded to crow his jubilation to the heavens, promptly earning him a smack to the ear from the irate Jedi Master leading the group out into the Temple perimeter.

And then Obi-Wan had found a puppy.

Now, as he and his friends pile into one of the packed eating halls for lunch, he wonders after it. Master Avarin had seemed serious enough when he took the pup off his hands.

"Hey, Obi-Wan," Quinlan jests from the other side of the table. "What's eating you?"

Obi-Wan snaps back to the present to find Garen, Reeft, Bant and Quinlan staring at him. He quickly shakes his head and shrugs, placing a goofy grin on his face. Laughter explodes around him, and all five turn back to their food.

"He's worrying over that mutt he found outside," a new voice breaks in. Siri Tachi slides into the space next to Garen, placing her tray on the table. "He probably wants to cuddle it or something. Carry it like Master Jinn carried him, by the scruff of his neck down the hallway like some disobedient hatchling."

By the time she is finished, Obi-Wan's ears are burning. Reeft tries to hide his chuckles, and Bant elbows him in the gut. Garen is already glaring at Siri beside him, who nonchalantly spears at her tuber mash. An awkward silence descends. Obi-Wan picks at his food; his appetite is gone.

Surprisingly, it is Quinlan who breaks the silence. "Hey, did you all hear about Bruck?" he asks quietly.

Obi-Wan's gaze snaps to Quinlan. Perhaps the Kiffar Jedi is helping him because of what happened on the transport to Ilum. Either way, there is no denying Obi-Wan is grateful.

"I heard the Council's keeping him in the Temple for the time being," Bant says eagerly. "Shouldn't he be sent off to the Ag-corps by now, though?"

"I don't know," Reeft mumbles through a mouthful of nerf. "They said something about 'monitoring his progress' or something like that."

"They're keeping him imprisoned," Siri cuts in, flicking her blonde hair out of her eyes. "They can't risk sending him off to the Agri-corps with that temper of his."

"Yeah," Garen mutters darkly. "They're not keeping him here because he can find a master. He can't. They're watching him. His attitude – it's just the thing which would cause him to Turn later on."

"Garen!" Bant hisses, swatting him on the arm.

"It's true!" Garen hisses back. "It's just as well that he couldn't find a master. All the worthless Jedi who turn Dark have–"

A rustle, as Obi-Wan pushes his piece of flimsy to the centre of the table. Five heads turn to him for a moment, and then bend over the writing in unison.

"What do you mean by 'Do not mock those who Turn, but grieve for them and their loved ones'?" Quinlan mutters in confusion. "Where did you get that idea from? Jedi don't have families."

Blushing slightly, Obi-Wan reaches for his flimsy, but a larger, adult hand folds over the piece of acrylic. The six of them snap to attention as Qui-Gon Jinn stares down at them emotionlessly.

"Master Jinn," Siri squeaks.

"Padawan, meet me in the level eight west corner dojo in half an hour," Qui-Gon says. Obi-Wan nods acknowledgement, and notices how his flimsy slips into his master's pocket as he strides away.

Obi-Wan's classmates seem to take a collective breath of relief as Qui-Gon slips into the crowd. "Your master's very intimidating, Obi," Garen mutters.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. Master Qui-Gon is many things, but intimidating is not one of them. He doesn't try to explain this, though; he has an inkling that only he understands this.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon meanders his way down to the training salles, fingering the flimsy in his sleeve. He hadn't meant to take his padawan's voice like that; but he had to see what Obi-Wan wrote, for himself. When Qui-Gon heard Vos read out Obi-Wan's words, he nearly did a double take. _Do not mock those who Turn, but grieve for them and their loved ones._ It spoke of maturity beyond Obi-Wan's years, and a deeper understanding of his master's emotions than Qui-Gon originally thought. A warm sensation uncurls in his stomach; it isn't altogether unpleasant, but very, very confusing.

So confusing that Qui-Gon does not see the threat coming until it is almost upon him.

"Master Dooku," he murmurs respectfully, bowing to his former master. _Of all the places to run into him!_

"Qui-Gon." Dooku's cultured tones are a slippery and unpredictable as a snake. "May I introduce you to my padawan, Huei Tori? But I believe you've already met."

Qui-Gon hides his surprise behind a mask of decorum and looks past Dooku to the shorter figure of Huei Tori. He had not noticed the padawan at first, as the Nautolan boy had been standing a foot to the left and two steps back from his master's position, in the perfect, humbled place of the Jedi Padawan.

This irks Qui-Gon to no end.

"Master Jinn," Huei states, stepping forward sharply and bowing low. "I am glad to see you well, after the mission to Ilum."

"Padawan Tori." Qui-Gon keeps his voice carefully, delicately neutral. He has to tread cautiously here. "I understand I have to you thank for aiding my padawan and I off-planet."

"Nonsense," Dooku cuts in, his voice a blade of silk. "He merely helped along with the other five younglings."

Huei Tori pauses, glancing at his master, then defers to yet another bow. "My master is right," he says quietly. "But I am grateful for your remembrance, Master Jinn."

"Your padawan is trained well," Qui-Gon comments. _So he obeys your every command. Interesting._ He allows curiosity to seep into his tone. "But I thought you were not going to take another padawan."

Dooku stares right back at him, raising an eyebrow. And a Makashi strike, right to the heart. "Neither were you."

"I concede your point," Qui-Gon nods, the barest of bows. "If you will excuse me, I have an appointment in the salles." He makes to sweep past.

"You must bring your padawan over to my apartments," Dooku says. "I would very much like the pleasure of meeting him. I have heard much already."

"Perhaps sometime in the future," Qui-Gon replies ambiguously, turning back into his worn path to the dojo. His mind analyses the information not without worry. Padawan Tori is Dooku's pawn – nothing else. Dooku had 'heard much already', meaning that Tori is Dooku's eyes and ears in the temple. Qui-Gon sighs. He would have to warn Obi-Wan against the Nautolan padawan.

(:~:)

Kit Fisto is already warming up when Qui-Gon enters the dojo. The tall Nautolan Knight flickers from movement to movement like a leaf in the eddying currents of a silvered river, his harlequin blade a paradox of control and untamed violence. Unpredictable and yet smooth, his 'saber flows on those invisible rapids of air, seeming to pause needlessly in whorls of iridescent light, only to dart in wild slashes around unseen obstacles, like the river boulders looming randomly out of the rushing tide. Kit Fisto's ever-present smile flashes white through the haze of green, the whispered dance of water over pebbles roaring into a waterfall, the frenzied hum of the lightsaber rising in a crescendo. The solitary leaf turns into an emerald wave, a roiling maelstrom straining against its barriers – but it is controlled. Just.

Shii-Cho is the way of the Sarlacc. Only semi-sentient, but a fearsome predator that only emerges to defend itself. The harlequin 'saber retracts into its hilt, hidden, just as the tentacles of the Sarlacc withdraw under sand, seemingly powerless once more. The flowing water is gone, dried up; but it only takes a drop of rain on the dry desert for Sarlacc to emerge and light to dance forth again from the twin crystals within.

Kit Fisto straightens out of his bow, form and velocity completed. His smile blazes forth like the unrelenting sun.

"Knight Fisto," Qui-Gon calls by way of greeting. "Your Falling Water kata is refined as always."

"I cling stubbornly to the old ways," Kit chuckles, humour lacing his accented voice. "But it _could_ be argued that Shii-Cho adapts far too much to ever be considered _old._" He pauses. "And could we dispense with the formalities? _Knight Fisto_ and all that. I was only knighted recently. You knew my master well enough." His head-tresses twist with sorrow.

"Master Ekun-Dayo is thought of often," Qui-Gon says gently. "But the Force welcomed him. Kit it is, then."

"Thank you, Master Jinn." Kit replies, equally as softly. Then a grin lightens his features, and his long head-tresses sway gently as he tilts his head at the entrance. "Ah, and here we have your shadow."

Obi-Wan's head emerges from one side of the entrance, his ears red with embarrassment. He trots quickly to Qui-Gon's side, bowing deeply to Kit, eyes wide with awe above scarlet cheeks.

With a laugh, Kit returns the greeting. "It is good to see your padawan has made me the subject of hero-worship," he jests, one warm, sable eye winking impishly at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan's face takes on the colour of barely-ripe muja.

"_Control_, padawan," Qui-Gon murmurs blandly, hiding a smirk of his own. "You will learn nothing by gaping. Kit, allow me to introduce my padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi." He winces internally. He had hoped to speak with Kit about Obi-Wan's inability to speak before his padawan's arrival. The encounter with Dooku had thrown off his plans.

Qui-Gon observes as Kit bows jauntily back at Obi-Wan, and sallies on nonetheless. "I asked Knight Fisto to join us today, as he is widely believed to be the forefront prodigy in Shii-Cho." He turns towards Kit, raising a cool eyebrow. _There you are, narcissist._ "He has very kindly agreed to aid you in refining your basic lightsaber velocities and katas, Obi-Wan."

"Don't bother with calling me _Knight_ and all that." Kit waves an ineffectual hand, his smirk widening impossibly. "It makes me feel old. Your master's the old dodderer – you can be as formal with him as you want. But call me Kit."

Despite the Nautolan Knight's obvious lack of knowledge about his condition, Obi-Wan cannot help a tiny grin from spreading on his lips when he hears Kit's title for Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon's voice drops dangerously. "This _old dodderer_ will later be participating in a example duel of Ataru against Shii-Cho, facing a certain very young Knight," he counters airily.

"Yes, Master Jinn," Kit replies nonchalantly. "As they always say, out with the old and in with the new."

Obi-Wan's gaze has long since changed from embarrassed to merry. It does not escape him that his master shoots Kit a glare as the _snap-hiss_ of the Knight's lightsaber signals the beginning of the lesson.

Qui-Gon settles into a meditative stillness as he watches Kit demonstrate then run Obi-Wan through the ten forms of Shii-Cho, from the most basic to the most advanced. At first, Obi-Wan's movements are precise, smooth, but as they advance to the more difficult katas, his 'saber handle glistens with sweat, his feet slowing in exhaustion. But throughout it all, his lips are pressed into a white line of concentration, fierce focus lending his young eyes a glittering intensity. The Force whirls in a tight vortex around him, cascading off his lightsaber and scattering in bright droplets of liquid sapphire.

When Obi-Wan finally slows to a stop, hands pressed to knees as he bends over, breathing hard, Kit gives him a short word of approval and pushes him into first meditation position, telling him to rest. Obi-Wan curls into a ball on the marked floor, seeking to center and calm his racing heart. He does not notice Kit moving over to Qui-Gon, a serious expression on his usually easy features.

"You've noticed," Qui-Gon murmurs quietly, clamping down on the bond so that his padawan will not hear or sense their conversation. It is unlikely Obi-Wan can hear anything over the roar of his blood and the Force, anyway.

Kit collapses in a gangly heap on the bench beside Qui-Gon, using the Force to summon a water bottle. "He can't speak," Kit says softly. His tone is a strange conglomeration of emotion. It is so unlike his usual voice that Qui-Gon spares the Knight a quick, searching glance.

Knowing that Kit is still waiting for an answer, Qui-Gon nods slowly. "Yes. But he does not let it define him." He turns back to where his padawan has flipped himself into and unsteady and exhausted handstand, stretching the muscles in his back.

Smooth black eyes fixed on Obi-Wan as well, Kit takes a long swig of water and places the canteen by boots. When he speaks, it is not with pity, or horror, or even veiled sorrow. It is with the same awe that Obi-Wan offered him before that Kit speaks of him now. "He embodies every value the Jedi strive to become. And more. You are fortunate to have him."

Qui-Gon sighs. "He still has much to learn. But yes. I do not deserve him." The faintest of smiles flits across his face.

Kit grins, flipping his 'saber hilt in his hand. "None would. Even if he were apprenticed to Master Dooku."

The words strike an unexpected chord within Qui-Gon. Kit turns toward him, noticing the sudden change in the Force. Qui-Gon rubs a hand over his face, and considers his options. "Kit," he begins, "Are you familiar with most Nautolan Jedi?"

One webbed finger taps a chin. "Yes," Kit mutters, contemplative. "There are not as many Nautolan Jedi as I would like. But fewer numbers mean I know most, if not all of them."

"What can you tell me of Huei Tori?"

The Nautolan Knight stiffens, his 'saber hilt flipping in mid-air to land solidly in his palm. "He is… different," Kit confides slowly, searching for the right words. "Forgive my forwardness, but I was not pleased when Dooku chose Huei as his padawan. Huei has always been serious, but not in a good way. Let me explain." He gestures at Obi-Wan, who has fallen into some of his newly-learned stances, testing his balance. "Obi-Wan is serious in his own way," Kit says, in that quiet way that Qui-Gon knows means he is troubled. "But Huei… Huei is a _void_."

"I know what you mean," Qui-Gon says, rubbing at the half-grown bristles on his chin. "I tried to read him, but I sensed… nothing."

"I trained him once when he was still an initiate, and I a padawan," Kit says, and edge to his voice. "In terms of form, he was excellent. But there was no enjoyment, emotion, or… _anything._"

"As good Sentinel material as I've ever seen," Qui-Gon mutters darkly.

"I had hoped he would find a master who would teach him that the Jedi Code des not forbid emotion, not exactly," Kit growls under his breath. "The Code advocates _control_ of emotion, but not its eradication. Master Dooku will either perfect Huei, or..."

"I understand." Qui-Gon frowns sharply. "This is troubling news. Control of emotion is one thing, but should Huei truly be _empty_…"

"Huei would be controlled by others. A puppet," Kit narrows his wide eyes, giving his features a fearsome, predatory air. "You see my reasons for concern."

Qui-Gon nods agreement. "We will have to wait and see."

Kit taps his 'saber hilt, lost in thought, and then suddenly brightens. "No matter," he says lightly. "The council will not stand by and watch one of its young members fall like so."

"I'm not inclined to put that much trust in the Council," Qui-Gon growls. _Look what they did for Xanatos._ "Ataru it is," he calls to his padawan, watching the grin light up Obi-Wan's face. "It is a much more elegant form than Shii-Cho," Qui-Gon jests at the Knight beside him.

"Shall we let your padawan choose?" Kit retorts, sitting back to watch. His grin returns at Obi-Wan's unbridled joy at being taught by his master seeps into the Force around them.

_They look like father and son,_ Kit muses as sapphire blade meets harlequin hum. But he keeps his observation to himself. Jedi do not have families, only bonds. The strength of the bond is another matter entirely.

Obi-Wan dances around his master's lightsaber, his own humming blade a calming arc around his feet. Qui-Gon's focused delight explodes across the bond at him, and Obi-Wan echoes it with his own.

(:~:)

The Council is surprisingly quick about their business, as it is nigh on dusk and although the matter at hand is classified 'Jinn plus padawan', it is still _Jinn._ So Mace Windu is cutting but brief.

"We're sending you on a mission."

Qui-Gon steadies Obi-Wan, who is swaying imperceptibly from exhaustion and delirium, having been drunk on the Force for two hours straight. "This soon?" he counters.

"Alas, you are indispensible in the field of diplomacy," Mace says, dispensing with his usual stoic mask in favour of sass.

Qui-Gon wonders if his friend has been talking to Avarin. The sarcasm certainly sounds like his. "What," he growls shortly. _Concentrate, Obi-Wan_, he sends into the bond. Qui-Gon only receives a muted thrum in response.

It is credit to how weary the Korun master must be, after a long day in Council meetings, that he plunges into the mission briefing without any trace of snark. "Naboo is currently undergoing senatorial elections. The Queen has expressed a desire for Jedi presence, as there is some unrest regarding the two senatorial candidates, Governor Palpatine and Governor Naberrie. As this is a simple peacekeeping mission, your expertise should be more than sufficient to cover any situations that might arise."

"A good place to learn, Naboo is, for your padawan," Yoda interjects, staring at Obi-Wan perceptively. Qui-Gon is somewhat relieved when his apprentice proves awake enough to bow to the aged master in acknowledgment.

"You will find transport waiting for you in the South Hangar tomorrow morning," Plo Koon says, his eyes wrinkling with a smile behind his goggled visual gear. "And Master Jinn… perhaps you should not work your padawan so hard in the first week of his apprenticeship." One clawed hand motions at where Obi-Wan sways on a happy daze, excitement for his first mission and exhaustion from training warring within him.

"Of course," Qui-Gon murmurs. "Masters." He nudges Obi-Wan to bow with him, and turns to leave. His padawan appears to stride normally, but only Qui-Gon's hand on his shoulder prevents him from stooping in weariness.

As the turbolift plunges down towards the residential levels, Qui-Gon breathes a sigh and turns to the boy grinning in stupor. "Obi-Wan," he chides gently, "A Jedi should never overwork himself until he cannot form a semblance of attention."

Obi-Wan nods, mouth opening wide in a yawn. Qui-Gon resorts to searching the bond for an answer, and finds nervous excitement for tomorrow, not just for the new mission, but something else, something more personal. Qui-Gon starts as he counts the days; he had nearly forgotten. Tomorrow is Obi-Wan's thirteenth birthday. Instinctively, he clamps down on the emotions running through his mind. It would not do for his padawan to be overly hyperactive tomorrow.

Back at their apartments, Obi-Wan barely manages to bolt down dinner before stumbling messily into the 'fresher and then into bed. In the heavy, calming silence before slumber, he pauses, supposing he should work on an assignment or two. But a small smile flicks over his lips. Tomorrow is his first mission, and his birthday to boot. He should reward himself some, should he not? Obi-Wan giggles within his own mind, wondering at how he can imagine his voice clearly now, instead of the hazy impressions he had before Ilum. Today had been awesome! Kit's Shii-Cho was so much better than his and his grin so electrifying, and Ataru so releasing. Master Qui-Gon's praise had made his stomach glow from within. Not literally, of course, but he had felt really warm after that. He wonders what Master Qui-Gon would get him for his birthday…

Qui-Gon quietly slides open the door to his padawan's bedroom, to find Obi-Wan sprawled happily over his pallet, a wild smile gracing his young features. Qui-Gon can only guess the reason behind his apprentice's grin, and laughing silently to himself, he closes the door. Crossing to his own room, he reaches deep into a drawer and brings out something smooth, dark, and solid. He has not felt the worn texture of this trinket for a long time; but as he brings it into the light of a nearby lamp, the glowing rays of luminance strike the scarlet-banded stone crosswise, and warmth flares where his fingers touch its surface.

A stray thought wonders why he did not give the stone to Feemor or Xanatos; and another inkling muses that perhaps he was selfish, in a sense. The stone holds a treasured memory of his childhood; he had found it while on a training mission with Tahl.

_So why am I giving it to Obi-Wan?_

But as the Force whirls in a vergence around the river stone in his hand, Qui-Gon smiles and laughs at his own confusion. The Force reverberates in the stone, singing faintly, thrumming though his bones. And if Qui-Gon can hear a whispered song, then Obi-Wan would hear a symphony.

Qui-Gon finds himself ironically expectant of what tomorrow would bring. If he isn't careful, _he_ would be the one kept awake in excitement. It almost makes him feel young again.

As Qui-Gon settles into a light slumber, the silvered rays of starlight cascade through the crystalline window in a waterfall of liquid white, and the river stone scatters the rays in fetters of iridescent colours over the chamber walls, each mote of light a note in a symphony that only one can hear.

(:~:)

**Ekundayo means sorrow to joy. I thought it was an appropriate name for Kit Fisto's master. I've started university now, and considering the workload for Medicine (that's what I'm studying) I won't be able to update as regularly as I used to. I had a LOT more time in secondary school, despite doing IB. But I will still try to get chapters to you as quickly as possible. See, I love you so much that I'm going to continue writing in MEDICAL SCHOOL. Next chapter – Palpatine. Palpy and his long term plans… merhehehehehe. And TWO very special birthday presents, integral to the future. **


	10. Life-Day Gifts

**I am so, so tired right now. My Uni messed up so much from courses to timetabling to student IDs. But I have piled together the fragments of writing I managed to cram into the past week and a half, and here we have the new chapter. And not too bad in length, either. Thank you all so much for your kind congratulations and encouragement. And especially MJLupin27. I've been under so much stress, and her (I'm assuming it's a her!) PM was one of the most heartwarming I've ever read. Thanks, MJ. I'm half dead so I'm going to cut myself short here so I can go and Zzzz. **

**Replies to guest reviews (and others I've been too dead to reply to):**

**Guest:**** Now. Haha. Hope you like.**

**Fanfic Lurker:**** As always, thank you. Force-foreseen plot points rapidly approaching. I also foresee some of you killing me later for this. I hope you don't. XD**

**EirinKenobi2893:**** Palpacreep. PALPACREEP. That is my new favourite Palpatine nickname. Obi will handle all things as he is: Obi-style. That means getting injured in some manner or the other, derive some deep philosophical meaning, and forge lifetime bonds. All while kicking butt. Excuse my lack of eloquence – the brain is dead. O_o**

**Guest:**** Yes, IB is useful. Especially in Uni, where the ability to spew deep stuff about anything comes extremely handy. And as it turns out, Uni takes even more time. I'm so dead. :P**

**SWfanfan:**** Sassmaster! Whoo! I'm so sorry, I'm trying to wake myself up with exclamation marks. I hope this is up to expectations.**

**Guest:**** I'm the same. I do karate katas with my lifesized Uchiha chokuto just to figure out the 'saber movements. I hope you continue reading. You're nice. XD**

**Queen Yoda:**** Apparently Kit IS younger. By quite a margin. I agree with you, though. He seems so mature, even with his jokey personality. I dunno about Ani and Obi yet. I don't want to ruin this fic by overly fixing things, but I don't want to leave things completely unchanged… I will decide that later on. When my brain is less fried. Thank you so much for the kind words. HUG!**

**newmexico:**** Thank you very much, dear. I really want to reply more but I'm just so… dead. Big hug from me. Nice long reviews help me through Uni annoyances. I love Kit, I really do…I'm looking forward to writing him again sometime.**

**S. T. Nickolian:**** I'm a fan too. I wonder what would happen if Loki met Obi-Wan…**

**Book girl fan:**** I meant to reply to you by PM, but Uni studying basically shot my energy reserves into tuber mash. Don't worry about me not studying haha. I'm living in the library. And in answer to your question, most definitely. You'll see.**

**And here we are… life-day.**

(:~:)

The south hangar of the Jedi Temple is never quite still; even in the dead hours of night, ships and smaller craft still drift into its waiting, lulling embrace, like hatchlings drawn to a common nest. In the silence of the hours just after midnight, Coruscant thrives on in the smoky rivers and undying lights of the city-planet, and the hangar is still astir, like the waters of a tidal maelstrom swelling at its lowest speed, not _calm_, exactly, but turgid and muted. Solitary Knights and a few lagging Master/Padawan pairs tumble, weary, down ramps and out pressurised doors, returning from mission, deliberation, battle and war, each as close and as far from Coruscant as mind and body. They are welcomed only by the Force, which echoes with welcome at their coming home.

Dawn rises over the textured Coruscanti horizon like variegated flames, sweeping through the forest of durasteel like wildfire, and as its bright bar of luminance sweeps across the entrance, the hangar itself seems to stir, like a hive about to swarm. The Force seems to suck in a breath, restless. The smell of engine oil percolates the air, a sharp scent of adventure, danger, bringing with it the unmistakable taint of hyperspace. Of a sudden, sentients converge upon the duracrete ground and its many gleaming spacecraft, engineers, deckhands, pilots. Boots, metal soles, nerfhide; shouts and clattering of crates and equipment, laughter and greetings in a hundred languages. Every rank from captain to cook, officer to cabin boy, and every level of Jedi from master to initiate. And with each specimen of bio-matter that sucks in the increasingly heated air of the hangar itself, droids pour in by the dozen. Astromechs, medi-droids, old etiquette units tottering unsteadily on clunky legs, pit-droids and science droids, maintenance, engineering, _entertaining_; The cultured tones of lightsaber droid Master Huyang, who waxes eloquent to some pitiable padawan about fried-wire circuits in a long-forgotten lightsaber. Shrill beeps and mechanised voices join the fray, melding into a battleground of broken noise.

Obi-Wan dances gently through this cacophony, his Force-signature a solitary star of coalesced silence among a whirling galaxy of chaotic sound, and he smiles to himself. What a way to make him feel special on his life-day. Here, he is not only the eye of the tempest, or a still drop in a thunderstorm; he is a perfect moment of calm in this turmoil that is rigorously maintained, ordered chaos of the morning cavalcade in the south hangar of the Jedi Temple. Obi-Wan is the centre of the galaxy.

Qui-Gon glances back at Obi-Wan he wades through the currents of droids and sentients, seeking to anchor his apprentice in his solid presence – only to find that he is not needed. Rather, Qui-Gon finds himself releasing his irritation, focusing on the bond above all else in the uneven, capricious tide of the Force swelling in this contained battlefield. And in an amusing strike of irony, Qui-Gon realises he is using Obi-Wan as an anchor, and not vice versa. He withdraws slightly behind shields of steel to save face.

Despite himself, Obi-Wan grins in delight.

His cloak swings heavily around his ankles, a wave of thick earthen fabric that flows from his shoulders to glide smoothly an inch off the ground, like a pennant of glory dancing in the wind of his passage. The cloak is new, procured straight from the quartermaster mere minutes previous; and with each stride Obi-Wan takes, it sways in a majestic billow of voluminous sleeves, hood, and well-sewn but rough cloth. With his 'saber glinting against his hip, boots rubbed to a dull shine, tabards and sash pressed to pristine glow, and braid swinging in an echo of his cloak's movement, Obi-Wan knows looks the very image of a Jedi padawan.

One just over five foot tall, but a Jedi nonetheless.

Obi-Wan glances beside him, and his stomach twists with pleasure as he realises he appears almost _exactly_ like his master. Qui-Gon's cloak is more worn, travel-stained in places, its edges frayed; but the Jedi master does not so much wear the cloak as present it as a testament to his rank as a veteran of the field, evident in the easy, familiar way it sweeps over his broad shoulders, swaying elegantly around his scratched boots, a constant, unchanging shadow. While Obi-Wan's cloak marks him as a Padawan, nothing more, Qui-Gon's cloak somehow embodies his grace, quiet power, and years of knowledge in the Force. And there is something about the way it twirls in the early morning air that suggests a slightest hint of _maverick._

Master and Padawan. Together, they make a formidable pair.

(:~:)

The Dressalian pilot who stands beside the boarding ramp of the private Republic craft pauses momentarily as he watches his two passengers approach, his mouth dropping open slightly at the sheer _swagger_ emanating from the pair. He has ferried Jedi to all reaches of the galaxy, but never two who looked quite like _these_.

"Good morning, Master Jedi," the pilot manages, recovering just on the cusp of diplomatic disaster.

"Good morning," the tall Jedi answers, in that dastardly confusing manner with which all Jedi speak. "I am Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn. This is my apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi. It's a pleasure to meet you, captain…?" Jinn's sky-blue eyes twinkle with hidden humour; the pilot's stomach sinks with the thought that perhaps his mind is being read. Despite all the time he as spent around Jedi, he is still not wholly convinced that Jedi do not have overwhelmingly supernatural powers.

Too late, the pilot realises that the Jedi is still waiting for an answer. "Saret," he says, just a touch too quickly. "You may call me Captain Saret."

Master Jinn's smile is subtly knowing, and although he does not turn his head towards his apprentice – _what was his name? Kenobi_ – the boy tilts his head slightly and presses his lips together, as if trying to keep himself from laughing. The movement shocks Saret slightly; Kenobi had remained so still that it is only this small motion that draws the captain's eye to him. Outwardly, Kenobi appears completely normal, but there is something…different about him. Actually, the aura of focussed _quiet_ around the boy is ever so slightly disturbing.

Kenobi starts as Master Jinn glances at him sternly, and a guilty blush starts on his youthful face. Saret blinks in surprise. All at once, Kenobi transforms from a stoic Jedi, a still, silent statue, into a young boy wincing at an elder's reprimand. But this small change is insufficient to displace the unsettled feeling in the captain's chest. The entire exchange between the Jedi, as quick as it is, seems to have taken place in complete silence.

Saret licks his dry lips and ventures, "Master Jinn, do you wish to be present for pre-flight checks?"

Jinn turns back to him, and is of a sudden all affable grin and politeness. "Of course, Captain Saret," he replies, motioning. "After you."

"Obi-Wan!"

The shout somehow makes it through the wall of beeps, voices, calls and hydraulic hissing that permeates the hangar, and Saret spies a dark-haired, green-robed man striding hastily towards them. Kenobi – _Obi-Wan_ – grins at the newcomer with unabashed delight.

"Captain." Master Jinn waves a hand up the ramp, before turning back to his apprentice. "Five minutes." Obi-Wan nods happily, and his master drops a hand to his shoulder before starting towards the ship with both their packs settled on his wide shoulders.

Saret frowns._ And now they look more like father and son._

But then Saret finds himself pacing up the ramp, the Jedi master not far behind him, and the ways of the Jedi contining to elude him.

(:~:)

Obi-Wan inclines his head in greeting as Avarin comes to an unhurried halt before him. The master healer returns the salutation, not one silver-tipped hair out of place, despite having most likely sprinted from the Healers' Wing.

"Did you think you'd escape my congratulations on passing your thirteenth life-day?" Avarin jests, his wide grin echoing his younger counterpart. His hand gives the scruffy head of hair a quick ruffle, pausing on the stub of a nerf-tail sticking comically out the back of the young padawan's head. Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow in a challenge that Avarin accepts, holding back his laughter successfully.

Obi-Wan shuffles his feet slightly; his hand hovers to his sleeve, where his flimsy resides, but Avarin turns his uncannily perceptive healer's gaze upon him, and smiles in understanding.

"Your puppy is safely recovering," Avarin says, chuckling. "He is quite the celebrity in the Healers' Wing; especially among the younger female padawans. It is not often the Jedi Temple is host to such an adorable sentient."

Obi-Wan nods his thanks, eyes shining in relief. He bows once more in farewell, and turns towards the ramp.

"Wait just a moment, Obi-Wan!" Avarin's variegated irises glint with amusement. "You cannot seriously assume that I left my _very prodigious _mound of work in the Healers' Wing this morning simply to inform you about the state of your first pathetic life form?" He gives a sly grin. "Stars' end, what has your master been teaching you?"

Obi-Wan freezes mid-step, jaw dropping open in surprise.

Avarin appears to mull his own words over, and he winces, rubbing his chin. "Actually, don't answer that," he mutters. Brightening, he draws a thin tube from his sleeve, wrapped in plain white cloth. "A life-day gift for my favourite initiate – now padawan, of course," he proclaims, the corner of his mouth twitching with humour. "Go on, open it."

Bowing deeply at the waist, Obi-Wan receives the present with a formal reverence, only straightening when Avarin gives him a nod of approval. The knots slide undone seemingly by themselves, and the heavy fabric is soundless as it slips away, revealing a grey flute.

The flute warms under his fingertips, made of a wondrous material; neither wood nor stone, it fits into his palm with the weight of masterful workmanship. Whorls and patterned leaves are etched into the shining silvery-grey surface, lining each tone-hole and forming an intricate wreath of vines around the mouthpiece. Runes meander their way across the carved leaves and branches, as if the wind sings words of an unknown language, flowing through the foliage. The design is so beautiful, perfect and natural, that Obi-Wan almost believes that should he blow across the mouthpiece and fill the flute with his breath, the leaves would dance in the sudden wind and sing for him.

"You hold it like this," Avarin says gently, smiling at the dumbstruck awe on Obi-Wan's face as the healer helps him to arrange his left, then right hand on the various tone-holes, holding the flute parallel to his shoulders and the ground, allowing him to blow over the first hole. A pure, crystalline note reverberates in the air, then fades into the Force, not forgotten, but a lingering warmth.

In the ensuing silence, Avarin tilts his head, sable and silver hair swinging along with the motion. "Like it?" he murmurs.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, clutching the flute to his chest, and nods so hard he thinks his head might fall off.

"I thought you might. Take care of it," Avarin laughs lightly. "It is quite rare. I have no use for it, so I thought I would give it to you." At Obi-Wan's distracted gaze, Avarin frowns. Then a thought crosses his features, and he asks, "Has your master given you what is due?"

Obi-Wan jolts, eyes widening slightly. Slowly, he shakes his head.

"Don't worry," Avarin says quietly. "Qui-Gon's stubborn enough that he'll wait for what he thinks is the perfect time before he gives a gift, regardless of whether it actually _is_. You will have to be patient."

Now sporting a small, relieved grin in return, Obi-Wan bows once more in thanks, turns, and scampers up the ramp.

Avarin steps back and watches as the ship rises into the air, powers out the hangar and dwindles into a distant star, until it is visible no more, lost in the ether of hyperspace.

"I hope it sings," Avarin murmurs under his breath, smiling as he pivots on a heel to return to his duties.

(:~:)

The ship seems motionless on the incorporeal plane of hyperspace, moving through a timeless haze of colourless pattern, unchanging, one-dimensional and infinite all at once, as it has been for the past day. Obi-Wan feels the hyperdrive hum under the bare pads of his feet, and reaches out to steady himself on the rail of his bunk. The sleeping quarters seem sparse enough, but there are probably far worse out there somewhere. This is a Republic shuttle, and no matter how simple the arrangements, the thin bunks are probably dearly coveted after by the hundreds of millions who travel on public interplanetary ships every day.

Obi-Wan rubs a hand over his tired eyes – reading the mission briefing and associated intel had been even more boring than he had originally thought. The dull lines of information had none of the wit of Jedi philosophy or the gripping impact of history. And throughout the monotonous hours, Qui-Gon had spoken only a few words to him, between meditation, assisting the pilot, and reading his own copy of archived intel.

It is as if Obi-Wan's master does not even know his padawan is thirteen today.

Forcing a swallow past the aching lump in his throat, Obi-Wan arranges his blankets in preparation to sleep. Avarin, reputed to have a correct opinion about almost everying, is_ finally_ wrong about something. This small spark of humour does nothing to alleviate his misery.

_Master Qui-Gon doesn't care after all._

So Obi-Wan climbs the little ladder into his bundle of blankets on the upper bunk, finding hyperspace cold for the first time, the chill of ventilated air from the grate above seeming to wreathe his eyes with frost.

And when the frost begins to thaw, the first drop of glacial melt runs down his cheek.

The hiss of the door sliding open and is so sudden, and the light so bright, that Obi-Wan nearly tumbles off his bunk. Attempting to right himself, he scrabbles in a most undignified manner at the blankets bunched in a restricting bundle around him, only to tilt precariously over the edge. The back of his mind calculates his slipping centre of gravity with increasing accuracy and mortification.

Qui-Gon watches his apprentice with the slightest of smiles on his lips, standing casually to the side as Obi-Wan fights his losing battle with gravity. When the struggle shows no sign of abating, Qui-Gon breathes a sigh. "Stop, padawan," he chuckles.

Obi-Wan freezes so comically and instantaneously that his rear finally slips off the edge of his bunk. He opens his mouth a soundless shout as he feels the pull of the shipboard grav-generator curl in his gut, rotating him until he plummets the six feet towards the floor, head-first…

And Qui-Gon steps forward smartly, catching his padawan under the arms, arresting his fall and reversing it gently to set him on his feet. Obi-Wan trips slightly on the blankets still cocooned around him as he stands slowly, disoriented.

"It appears your control is still somewhat lacking, padawan," Qui-Gon says wryly, holding Obi-Wan steady by the shoulders.

Obi-Wan blushes violently, looking away in embarrassment.

Qui-Gon frowns. The blushing thing would really have to go; it is the only defect in what would otherwise be a perfect image for negotiation. And then he notices how the bond between them shivers with trepidation, and inwardly berates himself. _Obi-Wan must have thought that my displeasure was directed toward his character._ Another small fault; Obi-Wan is far too self-depreciatory.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says quietly, "I am not disappointed with you. Come. Sit." He guides his padawan to the lower bunk, reaching to softly rearrange the mess of blankets around Obi-Wan's small shoulders. Obi-Wan watches him with wide, cautious eyes, vague curiosity leaking out from within his hastily placed mental shields.

"Now, do you know why I am here?" Qui-Gon asks, smiling. He is quite sure his apprentice has waited with eager anticipation throughout the day for this moment.

He becomes less sure, though, when Obi-Wan shakes his head, turning suspiciously red-rimmed eyes toward his master fully for the first time that evening.

Qui-Gon pauses for a moment, surprised and concerned. He had not spoken overly much to his apprentice today; the usual start-of-mission procedures and intel-gathering had seen to that. But guilt creeps like a marauder into his heart when he realises he may have overlooked just how young Obi-Wan is. Obi-Wan may be a padawan, but no initate enters apprenticeship with full control over their emotions, or entirely rid of their child-like need for attention. The way Obi-Wan stares mournfully at his master smacks of _neglect._

Obi-Wan starts as Qui-Gon sends a wave of reassurance over their bond, tinged with apology. "Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon murmurs, "I am sorry. I was otherwise occupied for much of today. I now give you what is yours." From a deep pocket, he withdraws the polished river stone from his childhood, placing it gently in his apprentice's hands. A rumble of laughter follows his next words. "And as much unlike the Jedi it is to say this, I wish to say it nonetheless: Happy life-day, Padawan."

In the brief moment Qui-Gon's fingers meet Obi-Wan's, he senses several things. Obi-Wan's hands are cold – clammy, even – and dwarfed by the stone that Qui-Gon has come to regard as no larger than a pebble. As Obi-Wan clutches the stone, his eyes widen impossibly, and his mouth opens slightly in formless words that do not make it past his lips.

A spark seems to dance in the river rock, a golden tongue of fire that flickers within the glimmering opaque depths of the stone. Obi-Wan's fingers tremble as they tighten white-knuckled around his master's gift, and a torrent of emotion upends into the Force, dissipating into peace, like a flood bursting through a fragile dam to seep nourishing into the earth below. Tears run unhindered down his cheeks.

Qui-Gon nods. "That was well done," he says quietly, taking care not to sound overly praising. But he suspects that his efforts are in vain. Obi-Wan's Force signature is a bubbly sea of joy and pride, now.

"This is a river stone from my home planet," Qui-Gon says as he strokes a finger over its polished surface. "It is very dear to me. Jedi are not allowed to form attachments – and see that you do not – but this stone is one of the few reminders of my childhood."

When Obi-Wan continues to clasp the stone tightly in his lap, blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Qui-Gon murmurs, still softer, "I pass it on to you. Will you accept it, Obi-Wan?"

He had expected a simple bow in response, but Obi-Wan once more casts all Qui-Gon's expectations into the four winds and throws his arms around his master's midriff, nodding vehemently as he buries his face into Qui-Gon's tunics.

For Qui-Gon, it is as if Dex had persuaded him to drink one of the Besalisk's famed _brain-basher_ cocktails. Obi-Wan's pointy chin digs into his sternum painfully, and the river rock, though smooth, rubs jarringly against Qui-Gon's spine where Obi-Wan's hands join at his back. Tears and snot and he knows not what else forms a damp spot on his once-pristine tunics where Obi-Wan's face is pressed into his chest.

But strangely, he isn't bothered.

_Why yes,_ Qui-Gon muses as his arms somehow find themselves around Obi-Wan's shoulders, a hand on the soft brown spikes of hair. _This is like downing a brain-basher in one._ His mind feels hazy, his chest constricted, but somehow, the hug in general feels extremely pleasant.

"Control, padawan," he mutters under his breath. Obi-Wan shifts slightly in his embrace, but the bond thrums with mutual amusement, as they both know reprimand has long since left them.

And later, when Obi-Wan lies wrapped in blankets, listening to Qui-Gon's deep, even breathing float comfortingly up from the bunk below, he feels his river rock warm where he grasps it to his chest, and hyperspace does not seem so very cold any more.

(:~:)

As Obi-Wan discovers the following morning, Jedi are rather _respected_ on the planet of Naboo.

The entirety of the Nabooian royal court seems to have gathered before the front Palace landing pad to greet the Jedi ambassadors. The Queen stands at the forefront, resplendently awash with gems, her dress a multi-layered, heavy costume with jewels and hand-embroidered cloth spilling down the sides in spiralling patterns of crimson, sable, and snow. Her expression, masked behind layers of white make-up and diplomatic training, welcomes the Jedi with a slight smile. No more emotion than necessary. Her handmaidens surround her in cowled ranks of fiery orange and dusky ochre, each face as hidden as the next. The rest of the Queen's entourage stand to attention behind her, each outfit an explosion of colour trying to outdo the one beside it, save for the guards, who stare straight ahead with the piercing yet vague gaze of the well-trained soldier.

As Obi-Wan descends the ramp, a thought occurs to him that the Queen does not look unlike a fire lily, her handmaidens an extension of her delicate petals and her court all less beautiful blossoms and twining vines.

And on each side of the queen, standing calmly in darker shades of navy and sable, are the two senatorial candidates, their own separate followers surrounding them in protective half-circles. The younger of the two candidates – _Naberrie_, Obi-Wan remembers – smiles in welcome, his entourage sporting equally vibrant expressions on their faces. Senatorial candidate Naberrie cannot be considered _young_ any more, but he is certainly not _old_, or even middle-aged. He exudes youthful confidence and easy friendship, and upon seeing him, Obi-Wan knows, with the simple perceptiveness of a Jedi youngling, that Candidate Naberrie is a good man and would be a trustworthy friend.

Then Obi-Wan's gaze slides to his left, and with it, he sends an inquisitive current of the Force which alights on the slightly crooked, crocodile smile of Senatorial candidate Palpatine.

It is only an instinctive compulsion to hide in plain sight that forces Obi-Wan to continue walking.

He had expected the two candidates to be different, but everything candidate Naberrie is, Palpatine is…not.

Candidate Naberrie is cultured, dressed formally, but his clothes and boots are both practical and not overly expensive. Palpatine, on the other hand, somehow makes his black robes appear regal, voluminous, and fluid, as if the senatorial candidate himself were dressed in moving shadows. The textured surface of the material shimmers in some places, but the slight reflective patterning only serves to suggest how light seems to writhe, captive, in the sharp lines of embroidery. In stark contrast with the sleek sable of his robes, Palpatine's lined face is pale, almost unhealthily so, his lips drawn back in what should have been a grandfatherly smile but somehow reminds Obi-Wan only of a Sarlacc's maw.

Something cold and unfamiliar coils in Obi-Wan's chest as he meets the empty gaze of the man before him. It takes him several moments to recognise the emotion as fear.

Palpatine's Force-presence is weak, ineffectual, like many who are not Force-sensitive. But just as his clothing seems to move against the slight wind, wreathing him with dark vines of shadowed identity, the Force is unsettled around Palpatine, the light skimming over his sphere of influence like silverfish skirting the mouth of a shark.

Obi-Wan continues to stare openly into Palpatine's gaze, facing his fear. A spark of recognition flickers in the darker pair of eyes, and then Palpatine turns his frighteningly empty gaze onto Obi-Wan's master instead.

Coming back to himself, Obi-Wan nearly stumbles as he reaches the end of the ramp. What must have been seconds had felt like years. His heart hammers behind his ribs, but he forces himself to still, to center. A long, calming exhalation. A thought flashes across his mind nonetheless.

_For a moment, I thought he was a black star._

Qui-Gon's bright Force-presence passes Obi-Wan like a warm, caressing wind as he steps forward to greet the Queen. Only a slight nudge of his master's hand brings Obi-Wan back to reality, and he makes his hasty bow a smooth and effortless one, edged with apology. And quite a flattering greeting too, judging by the murmured titters of a few of the younger handmaidens, all Obi-Wan's age.

_Focus, padawan,_ Qui-Gon's reprimands, his voice thrumming in Obi-Wan's mind. _You are distracted._ His tone is humoured, though, as he glances at the elder handmaids shush their younger counterparts.

Obi-Wan sends a jumble of his observations in a series of images and emotion across to his master. Qui-Gon does not pause in his greetings and introductions, but his feet shift ever so slightly into a basic Shii-Cho offensive stance. Reassurance trickles over the bridge between them and into Obi-Wan's chest, warming and uncoiling the cold knot of fear.

But as the Queen begins to speak, Obi-Wan senses that cold gaze fall upon him again, spearing him like a darkblade, a weapon not seen in battle for a millennia.

The black star still burns vivid with shadow on Naboo, its frozen rays seeking to capture the two Jedi like solar flares of dirty spun silk grasping at a pair of bright sapphire and harlequin comet-tails. And as Obi-Wan follows his master into the Palace, he notices something more.

The music of the spheres is eerily quiet, suffocated by tentacles of dark starlight.

Obi-Wan folds his hands into opposite sleeves, grasping the flute resting on his forearm. He clings onto that whisper of music like a hanged man to the rope of his noose, struggling to breathe through a miasma of shadow.

(:~:)

Palpatine's smile is faintly wider on this sunny morning. Perhaps he has overdone it slightly, and made his sudden interest in Padawan Kenobi too obvious. He would be a hard one to Turn, that boy…but should he succeed, that bright crystal that burns in Kenobi's heart would focus Palpatine's plan like a sable crystal in a darkblade.

He smiles once more, savage joy burning in his chest.

Why not? It is quite the time to take another apprentice.

(:~:)

**Don't kill me. Please. And I'm already half-dead anyway, so you'd only finish off the job. I think I shall go and Zzzz now. Thank you all for reading this chapter; tell me what you think so I can have something to cling on to while plowing through work in the library.**


	11. Flute-work

**So. I have a longer chapter for you all here, as an apology for the wait. The sheer amount of coursework I have yet to complete would be quite enough to cause even senior archive padawans to falter in their tracks. But for all you lovers of music out there – hopefully you can hear the flute as well as I can, because I nearly could when I wrote about it playing.**

**And another note – I finally got around to reading one of Matthew Stover's books – the Revenge of the Sith novelisation, specifically. And got the shock of my life, because my writing style has some aspects that are so like his. I've never touched one of his books before – my local library doesn't even have Shatterpoint – but he is now my writer's soulmate. Too bad he's some forty years my senior.**

**Replies to guest reviews and others I was too tired to reply properly to:**

**Fanfic Lurker:**** Palpatine's a joy to write. I like creeping myself out while writing him. And I had absolutely no idea that I didn't write any dialogue. I must be getting used to conveying a scene without much speech. And ah, Huei Tori… he's something of everything. I'M NOT GOING TO SAY ANY MORE THAN THAT! XD**

**SWfanfan:**** I agree. Sleep is nice. I've been managing really well on that, though, so I suppose it's as good as it's going to get. XD**

**Guest:**** Your question is answered here. Thank you very much for the compliment!**

**Queen Yoda:**** I'm actually bringing together ALL the big guns. You'll see in a moment. But I'm not converging their paths quite yet; the path of a Sith is never quite simple. And about the gifts… the rock and the flute have their own uses. And the reason you can't get a writer's intuitive feel on the plot is that although I've sketched out an outline, I'm an advocate of Qui's 'seizing the moment' style – I put whatever I have running through my mind onto the page. It works. Most of the time. XD Happy reading!**

**Book girl fan:**** Palpy's creepiness is quite exhilarating to write, actually. XD I have more later.**

**Newmexico:**** Ahem. Three villans. Plus a Turning one. BRINGING OUT THE BIG GUNS!**

**Randomnormality:**** Those embedded most in the light have the furthest to fall… but it depends who is there to catch them.**

**SK12monster:**** And here we are. I admit I'm a little evil… but Obi's too precious for me to resist.**

**TortoisetheStory:**** As promised, here you are. And I put as much effort as I could into the flute, because you're amazing. Not many people come back and kick writers in the butt to get them to finish a chapter. I hope I don't disappoint.**

(:~:)

Qui-Gon Jinn is beginning to feel the first stirrings of concern for his padawan.

Obi-Wan seems rather more quiet than usual; a strange way of putting it, but in their short time together, Qui-Gon has already become acutely attuned to Obi-Wan's silence, so much so that reading him is a task often done easily enough.

_I have a bad feeling about this,_ he realises, as they approach the queen together.

Obi-Wan had frozen momentarily as they emerged from the sleek Republic shuttle into the bright afternoon light, his boot missing the smooth transition from one step to another. A blast of radiance exploded out of his Force-presence, as if an azure star reached the last moments of its existence and burst into a supernova. Qui-Gon had spared Obi-Wan a penetrating glance as he passed him – and was nearly floored by the sheer _panic_ in the air around Obi-Wan as he followed his master slowly. Diplomacy had required Qui-Gon to tear his gaze away from his apprentice and towards the dignitaries before him, but their bond _convulsed, _and Obi-Wan's signature wavered before withdrawing almost violently into itself.

It is as if the supernova of Light of a moment before had expanded to a limit and collapsed in on itself, crushing its heart of luminance into a tiny, breathless space, a whirling neutron star, pulsing with a rapid heartbeat of sharpened focus. Qui-Gon had probed the bond; but Obi-Wan has retreated behind shields of Vespari steel, cool and ineffectual, and far too advanced for the average padawan of his age.

Qui-Gon brushes Obi-Wan's hand lightly with his own, now, they halt before the queen; he senses rather than feels his apprentice's sweat-slicked palm tremble imperceptibly as they bow in unison. Despite this observation, though, Obi-Wan's bow has just the fluid humility required of a Jedi Padawan, much to the enjoyment of a few of the handmaidens.

But there are more pressing matters at hand, so he sends a quiet reminder to Obi-Wan to _focus_, in between the usual political introductions.

Obi-Wan's reply is a frenzied conglomeration of images, barely-restrained emotion and apprehension, and altogether completely indecipherable.

Qui-Gon shifts his feet and folds his hands into opposite sleeves as he clamps down on the spike of _wrongness_ seething through the Living Force within himself. _Everything is fine, Obi-Wan,_ he sends across the bond. Certainty wreathes his words.

In reality, Qui-Gon is not quite so sure.

(:~:)

It is only after the lengthy introductions had been completed – Senatorial Candidate Palpatine has the weakest Living Force signature Qui-Gon had ever sensed – many niceties exchanged and a formal invitation to dinner at the royal court extended towards them, do master and padawan find themselves alone in their decadent guest quarters.

Qui-Gon releases an appreciative sigh at the silence. "Obi-Wan, regarding the–"

Obi-Wan takes a step forward and crashes onto a couch, his knees giving way below him as he doubles over. He gulps in air with the desperation of a fish denied water, his face blanched deathly pale under sudden beads of sweat. Air hisses out from between his clenched teeth; a shocking sound, as it is not silence, nor a voice, but the uncontrolled passage of air that turns Obi-Wan's breathing almost into sobs.

"Padawan." Qui-Gon is beside him in a moment, a surprisingly gentle hand brushing back strands of soaked gold-streaked hair from his apprentice's forehead. The skin is clammy under his fingers. Something in the manner with which Obi-Wan shakes his head and swallows forcefully brings a thundercloud of anxiety into Qui-Gon's heart.

"Padawan," he repeats, relieved at the severity of his tone, and that it does not betray his dread. "You need to breathe. _Slowly."_

Obi-Wan's eyes flick up to meet his master's for a moment, and Qui-Gon finds the grey-blue irises darker than usual, as if their usually peaceful waters had swollen with weeping rainclouds; the calm before a storm. His mental shields are a curved wall of solid obsidian – _obsidian._ A moment – then the panicked sawing of Obi-Wan's breath shudders as it quietens.

"Yes…just so…" Qui-Gon murmurs quietly as he rearranges Obi-Wan on the cushions. His worry spikes to new heights again when he might as well have been moving deadened weights rather than living limbs. _By the Force._ At this rate he would be setting himself up for an intense brooding session this evening.

When it becomes relatively clearer that his padawan is not about to have a seizure, Qui-Gon excuses himself to the kitchen, fumbling in his pocket for tea. The water boils – seemingly more slowly than it ever had before – and into the teapot it rushes in a silvered waterfall, steam rolling over its lip. Qui-Gon does not bother to check whether the leaves are properly steeped – and some small part of him is aware he has just committed a cardinal sin he had sworn he never would – but crystalline liquid falls in a sparkling arc, lightly tinged emerald, from pot to cup, and a few long strides are all it takes for Qui-Gon to return to Obi-Wan's side and press the warm clay into that small, chilled hand.

Obi-Wan does not need prompting this time; down the entire cup of Sapir tea goes, in one long gulp. Pain blossoms into their bond – the tea had been close to scalding – but Qui-Gon welcomes the sensation as his own, embraces it, wraps it in luminous threads of silver and casts it away as scattered leaves. For it signals that Obi-Wan's shields are lowered.

_Padawan._ Qui-Gon sends the word more forcefully than he normally would, in an attempt to wade through any unseen barriers. _Center._ He feels Obi-Wan grasp at him through their tenuous connection, widening it, strengthening it, using him as an anchor. Qui-Gon breathes a weary sigh as the sickening spinning in Obi-Wan's Force signature finally slows to a halt.

He is rather more embarrassed that it took the Force-equivalent of a hug for it to do so. But a glance at his apprentice's beetroot cheeks at least shows that he is not alone in this sentiment.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says slowly, feeling not the least bit young – _this boy will be the death of me_ – "I think you owe me an explanation."

(:~:)

It takes the better part of half an hour for Obi-Wan to communicate every last iota of his experiences to Qui-Gon, both through ink and their bond. When the influx of emotion and shattered fragments finally cease, it would not be truthful to say that Qui-Gon is anything less than profoundly disturbed.

_Palpatine._

It is true that the senatorial candidate had an exceedingly weak Force-signature – it is as if the midichlorians in his very cells were feeble, barely stirring whereas they whirl through Qui-Gon's and Obi-Wan's veins in a wild, dancing gavotte to the beat of their hearts.

But to be _Dark…_

It is only now that Qui-Gon realises that from the moment he stepped out of the speeder, he had instinctively raised his shields to counteract the vague aura of death seeping through the Force. He had not thickened them to the point in which he could not sense his apprentice – but he had certainly not sent out inquisitive probes like Obi-Wan had. And while he is attuned to the Living Force, Obi-Wan is embedded so deeply in the Unifying that at times Qui-Gon supposes that his stormy grey eyes shine with the light of a hundred possible futures.

These same grey-blue eyes watch their master, now, undisturbed by the silence.

At length, Qui-Gon asks, "Padawan, did that aura of Dark emanate solely from Candidate Palpatine?"

Obi-Wan frowns quizzically up at his master.

"Let me rephrase," Qui-Gon amends. "Is it absolutely indisputable that Palpatine was the source, and the _singular_ source, of this darkness?" At his padawan's widened eyes, Qui-Gon continues, "So he might not have been, then. Obi-Wan…the Light shines _through_ the Jedi; we are not sources of Light, but channels for it. Paradoxically, the Dark is… similar." A wry smile quirks the side of his mouth at the disbelief painted in broad strokes over Obi-Wan's gaping features. "The line between Light and Dark is but a thread. All shadows are cast by light, padawan. Palpatine may not even be Dark himself, but he might be living in the shadow of it. Constant contact with something so filthy no doubt leaves traces."

Obi-Wan makes an involuntary movement; his fingers twitch where they are wrapped loosely around curved ceramic.

"…But we should not dismiss Palpatine's involvement," Qui-Gon says, removing the cup from his apprentice's fingers before it can become a fine example of the second law of thermodynamics. "There is something Dark at work here. We must investigate – but without interfering overmuch with the election process. Tighten your shields when we are in the presence of the court."

Relief passes over Obi-Wan's features in a wave of calming peace. The unbridled _trust_ in those irises unsettles Qui-Gon for a moment. It seems as though his padawan has complete and utter faith in his master – to the point where the simple declaration of a plan of action seems to have taken all his fears and smoothed them over, like waves washing clean the shore.

And just when Qui-Gon begins to brood over how to deal with this rather unexpected and confusing revelation – his apprentice surprises Qui-Gon yet again when he slides off the couch and kneels on the embroidered rug beside it, back straight and hands folded on his lap.

Obi-Wan smiles in gentle invitation.

Despite himself, Qui-Gon feels merriment bubble up out of him in a chuckle as he drops to his knees opposite his padawan. They close their eyes in unison, seeking synchrony in the unsullied currents of the Force as a tidal swell of Light washes over them in cool crystal waves, cleansing away the sable traces that had clung to them like windblown smoke.

But although they drift together, cradled in a coracle of reality in the unending sea of the Force, this meditation does not so much seem a release of emotion than a moment of comfort before battle. Neither master or padawan are aware of it; but the tiny coracle shivers as it crests a final surge of brilliance, and they slip over the lip of a waterfall together, the iridescent shards of the Unifying Force scattering around them in droplets. And perhaps years later, on the edge of another sea, when the twin suns above send currents of sand dancing over the endless wastes, a master will look back upon this moment and finally understand.

Their war begins here, in this first moment of silence.

The music of the spheres catches itself – then continues on, filling the quiet with whispering melodies.

And then a knock on the door – the first beat upon the war drums – rouses master and padawan from their meditation, and they go toward their future together.

(:~:)

Sunlight rims the horizon with blood. Several klicks west of Theed, an inconspicuous craft churns foliage into disarray as it brings itself to a sleek landing in a swampy clearing. The forest itself seems to lean over the craft, swallowing it further in shadow. A hiss of compressed air as an airlock snaps open, the synthetic silver of the ramp a glaring, unsettling bar in the natural branches surrounding it.

Xanatos Ducrion emerges from the blinding light within, a moving shadow among the artificial luminance, his tunics immaculately pressed and his new 'saber resting carelessly at his hip. Ice-blue irises roam towards the treeline, where the lights of Theed twinkle through the branches as if they were lanterns strung through the leaves.

A smaller figure climbs out after him, a Zabrak no more than ten standard years of age; but his fell eyes burn yellow, and the crimson skin of his forehead is beetled in a frown.

"You!" Xanatos's voice is a whiplash of authority. "You know what to do. I want a full map of connections the city's _dirtier_ side by tomorrow evening. Steal if you have to; I want information."

The Zabrak growls softly in his throat. "And my payment?"

Xanatos narrows his eyes, and his gaze burns with cold fire. "I see no reason you should be so… _informed_. Your mother is forever bound to the Nightsisters. You have no roots, no anchor. Complete your mission and we'll see about your next meal."

Should anyone else have been observing the conversation, perhaps they would have noted that there is something utterly wrong with this child; a horrible bitterness drips off his words as they roll off his tongue with the harsh rasp of a world-weary adult. Red skin pulls painfully over bared teeth.

"Yes, sir."

Xanatos stares down at him. "What are you waiting for? Go on, boy."

The Zabrak boy has no name. Not anymore.

A swish of rags, and Xanatos is alone in the clearing once more. He pauses as he turns toward his ship; reads something in the currents of the air.

His smile is all white teeth and mirthless humour. His timing was right. Qui-Gon is here. And his new brat.

Very well, then. It is only right his former master should understand the true meaning of _pain_.

(:~:)

Palpatine's Force-signature is somewhat stronger when the Jedi enter the formal dining hall, but the miasma of death that clings to him and his entourage is still enough to twist Obi-Wan's appetite into a queasy churning in his stomach.

Qui-Gon's Force-presense flares slightly, anchoring Obi-Wan steady. _Breathe, padawan,_ his voice echoes between them. _Find the Light and draw from it. _Obi-Wan takes a breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs, and as he releases it, he allows his fear and uneasiness to melt away into the calm currents of the Force.

_Good._

Palpatine greets them with perfect civility. "Master Jinn. Padawan Kenobi."

Qui-Gon replies earnestly, nearly overdoing it slightly – but better to place an opponent in a false sense of security than to appear overly cautious. Despite his efforts, Obi-Wan is blanched pale, so Qui-Gon sends him off to greet Candidate Naberrie in his stead.

Brat. Leaving him to deal with politics on his own.

Obi-Wan feels the choking mist of shadow lessen slightly as he drifts into the other side of the room, away from Palpatine and his advisors. He pauses to search the sea of murmuring guests for his target; but rather embarrassingly, his target finds him.

"Jedi Kenobi!" Senatorial Candidate Atushi Naberrie is all bright smile and warm handshakes, his face lit by a certain fatherly light as he places a hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder. "Let me introduce you to my family."

Atushi's wife is an elegant woman with intense, hawk-like eyes. She sends Obi-Wan a perceptive glance that goes, painfully, straight through him. Understanding spreads over her features, but she does not so much react to the revelation as offer him the deepest respect for it. "It is an honour to meet a Jedi," she murmurs. "Especially one so handsome." A smile quirks her lips.

Obi-Wan's bow is slightly deeper than strictly required – but it is filled with gratitude, and just enough shyness to melt curious observers' hearts even further.

Atushi smiles, acknowledging the manoeuvre with a polititian's eye. "And my daughter," he says proudly as he crouches and reaches behind his wife. A pair of tiny hands appear, fisted in the elaborate folds of the dress.

"Sweetheart, where are your manners? Come out and greet Jedi Kenobi," Atushi's wife chides gently, batting at her skirts. Wide brown eyes peek out curiously from behind a curtain of silk. Obi-Wan supresses a smile.

Atushi grunts with the effort as he jerks his daughter out into plain sight, his two hands around her hips as he settles her before him. "Two years old and already so heavy," he sighs dramatically. "But you're destined for great things, aren't you, Padmé?"

Padmé Naberrie giggles slightly as she blinks up at Obi-Wan. Her tiny curtsey is an adorable ruffling of taffeta and satin; her dark, rich hair is similarly wrestled into an elaborate headdress. Obi-Wan transforms his low bow to crouch down on one knee, aware that this still does not bring his eye-level as low as Padmé's is. His head tilts to one side, and Padmé copies him enthusiastically.

The examine each other, one with a tendril of the Force, the other with naught but a child's clear insight. A bright flare of colour blazes out of the Unifying Force like a firework, bringing with it a face painted with white and red – but fades just as quickly. Obi-Wan blinks rapidly, trying to re-centre himself.

"Wan-wan," she mumbles, holding out a chubby hand to him. Already, her liquid brown irises hold a glimmer of the intelligence that floods her mother's.

Obi-Wan nods graciously, takes Padmé's tiny palm in his own, and brushes his lips against his thumb in a mock kiss to the back of her hand.

"Oh dear," her mother chuckles. "Quite the gentleman we have here."

Obi-Wan releases Padmé's hand as if scalded, colour rushing to his cheeks. He hadn't intended to be so…frivolous. It had seemed _appropriate_, somehow. Then Padmé's hand lands on his hair, once, twice, _pat pat_.

"You're sweet," she declares, for all the world to hear. "I'll trust you forever."

Then she promptly turns and buries her face back in her mother's skirts, and Atushi gives a light laugh and turns to the next politician.

It wouldn't have mattered if Obi-Wan had a voice in that moment. He would probably be speechless anyhow. And absently, he becomes aware of a deep chuckle beside him, and looks up into the amused glint of his master's gaze.

"Politics, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says mildly, as a gong rings to sound the beginning of the meal.

(:~:)

Entertainment after dinner is a ridiculously fancy affair – and so utterly, Force-forsakenly dull that Qui-Gon sees fit to discreetly send his apprentice away, under the pretence of some errand or the other. Obi-Wan had been nodding into his Nyork broth, exhausted from shielding so hard and so tightly for such an extended period of time. In other similar situations, Qui-Gon would have had his padawan stay for a lesson in patience, but he would rather avoid diplomatic disaster in this case – a drowsy padawan would wreak havoc on their political image.

And so with a reminder to return to their quarters before midnight lodged firmly into his mind, Obi-Wan scampers off, eager to escape the twin daggers of Palpatine's gaze grazing his retreating back.

Once Obi-Wan rounds the corner, he breaks into a sprint. The silence seeps into him like sweet water to a parched tongue, and with it swells the Force, rejuvenating his weary limbs as he flips through the empty corridors. His cloak he had left by his master – but no matter. He breaks off in another direction each time he senses a sentient approach ahead, dancing through the labyrinth until he slides across the marble like a pebble across water, out of the palace walls and–

The sight of the royal gardens of Naboo takes Obi-Wan's breath away.

The planet's three moons drift upon the sable seas above, one waxing, one waning, the last a luminous coin resting on folded velvet of the sky, sewn with diamonds. Their differing shapes do not matter – for each is a crystal of the Living Force, focusing shining beams of moonlight onto the face of Theed. Obi-Wan muses dazedly that the Naboo might have built their homes with that particular rare ochre stone simply so that the radiant stardust of the Nabooian night can cast the city in silver and gold.

The Force is so _clear_ here that when Obi-Wan steps out from the shadow of the last archway, it crowns his brow in a circlet of starlight and turns his rough-spun cream tunics to silken ivory. Half in a dream, Obi-Wan wanders into a paradise in the Force; it limns the grass with crystalline dew and brushes his fingertips in the breeze. The very air is composed entirely of flowing light as the three moons eliminate each other's shadows – an event so rare it is celebrated with a festival among the Gungans, he remembers. A hummingbird's passage his a blur of heat, the wind thrumming from its wings in iridescent comet-trails to dissipate into the Living Force.

With reverent steps, Obi-Wan transverses the quiet paths, his boots silent on gravel, pebble, and earth. A few paces, and he reaches the very edge, where a polished white marble balustrade is all that separates him from a breathtakingly high drop into the indigo waters below. The balustrade leaves its straightened precision here, looping out form the cliff face in a half-moon to form a small balcony, overlooking the roaring thunder of the waterfall beneath it. Groundwater must flow under the gardens here, emerging from under the overhang of the balustrade and whirling in an effervescent spray to the sea below.

His fingers find the lined marble with ease, and half in a dream, Obi-Wan finds himself perched on the world's verge, with the whispering wind behind him, Night's cloak whirling above, and the rumble of the waterfall below. Without him quite knowing why, his river stone is placed before his crossed legs; and his flute emerges from his sleeve like a sleek weapon from its sheath.

Obi-Wan watches the moonlight strike the river stone, takes a breath, and begins to play.

Time itself seems to still, caught in that frozen moment when the first note of a song shimmers into being, like a snowdrop formed in the perfect storm. The melody is not one he recognises; rather, Obi-Wan feels as if he is not playing, but _listening_. The song is everywhere, as is the Force. The stars are his notes, the galaxy above his five-lined score, the wind his concertmaster. His music is the chuckle of the brook meandering across the emerald blades behind him; it is the thunder of the torrent raging below his feet; it is the starlight in his hair and fireflies reflected in pools of dew; and the three moons above are triplet drums that dance to the rhythm of his song. And above all it is the Force, but the Force is not _with_ Obi-Wan, or _in_ him.

Obi-Wan _is _the Force, for the Force listens too. And it chooses to dance to the music of the spheres.

So as his flute-notes whirl through the garden like iridescent leaves, new Rominaria flower buds push themselves through dew-moistened earth to open their starburst throats of nectar in song. Crooked saplings straighten with new vitality as the Living Force courses through its veins, apple-blossoms wreathing its branches with jewels. The Jedi are the crystal of the Force – but Obi-Wan no longer simply _focuses_ the Light – he is a conduit for it, a single azure star among the billions more flaring in unison in the galaxy and beyond, the influx of incandescence so strong within him that for a moment he fears that he will shatter like a crystal holocron and lose all sense of himself – but then he lets the fear go, as he does every emotion except pure, undiluted joy.

And perhaps the etched vines on the flute shiver in the starlight, but Obi-Wan does not see – his eyes are closed and his world is all Light, so why would he notice the softly glowing luminescence of his river rock drift up on a crescendo of notes to set the carved leaves on his flute dancing?

But no matter.

Obi-Wan does not speak to the Force tonight. The Force listens as he sings.

And when the melody finally falters, Obi-Wan releases the unsung song in a long, silent sigh and opens his eyes.

The garden is quite still around him, the air silent. Even the rumble of the waterfall seems muted.

And yet the song still echoes in the river rock as his fingers brush its smooth surface. So the stone is a vessel, a lodestone for the Force, and his flute the conduit that filled it. And Master Qui-Gon had said it was a simple rock!

Obi-Wan smiles.

(:~:)

Qui-Gon stands frozen in the archway to the gardens, his heart an ache within his chest as he grasps at the fraying threads of melody. Like a memory of a dream, the notes elude him, but the peace it brought still wraps about him, more secure than the cloak about his shoulders. He had realised something, then, in the long minutes he watched from the shadows of the gate; just as he cannot reach out and touch the music, he cannot touch the Light that flows through his apprentice, that _is_ his apprentice.

Qui-Gon cannot touch the Light, not in the way Obi-Wan can.

The Living Force consoles him, but it makes no such distinction between Unifying and Living with his padawan. There is no passion, there is no emotion, there is nothing save for the Force. Peace and serenity are but pebbles along Obi-Wan's path; for the Force is ever present within him. Even should the Republic fall and all civilisation crumble, even should Sith-spawned hell lay waste to the jewel of the core, Obi-Wan would still burn as brightly as a newborn star. The Jedi are forged as crystals of the Force, yes. But Obi-Wan is part of the the forge itself.

Qui-Gon takes a moment to laugh quietly, for it seems that the Unifying Force has chosen to murmur another one of its little whispers to him. It occurs to him that Obi-Wan would make an excellent master, once knighted.

At the sound, Obi-Wan glances first at his master, then at the wandering paths of the moons above. He freezes in horror, calculating – and correctly so – that the hour is well past midnight, the limit set on his wanderings.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon calls. He starts at his voice – it seems but a rough rasp compared to the lilting cadence of the notes moments before.

Obi-Wan slides to a halt before his master and bows deeply in apology for his tardiness, his cheeks blazing crimson.

"Little one," Qui-Gon reprimands gently. Obi-Wan's head jerks upward, his gaze an amusing mixture of startled and wary. His master gives a wry smile. "Well done. There very few padawans able to meld with the Force half as well as you have just done. I have no intention of punishing you tonight." His fingers move of their own accord – and a moment later, the voluminous folds of his cloak settle onto Obi-Wan's shoulders. "You might be inclined to bring your cloak with you the next time you decide to visit the gardens, scamp," Qui-Gon says, masking affection with humour. "Naboo nights are rather cold."

Obi-Wan clutches at the warm fabric gratefully, and feels his master's hand settle on his shoulder as they turn back to their chambers together.

For a march to war, this isn't quite so bad after all.

(:~:)

**Dun Dun DUUUN! Do you hear the war drums? Anyway, I will update as soon as possible. To tide you over, an excerpt from the next chapter:**

"Fool of a child. Your shadow is nothing. You are an imitation of a shadow, nothing more; you cannot claim to be Dark when you still stand in half-light."

**Aaaaand cliffie there. Until next time!**


	12. Dying Light and Lengthening Shadow

**Heheheeee… I think you'll all love me for this chapter. I don't think I can make posting weekly a regular occurrence, as projects and essays are coming rather thick; but I will try to make up for quantity with quality. Here you go. Ample foreshadowing here. Oh, and to those who didn't understand, the flute-work of last chapter was hardly all Obi-Wan's skill; the Force guided him through it. A pity there are no instant musial abilities like that in real life. I envy him. Oh! And when I mention Obi-Wan "comming" Qui here, I don't mean he speaks, but he communicates through some form of clicks. I'll explain that more later on.**

**I want to mention something important… I've taken a master. Master R'hyvar is one of the nicest people I've ever met on , and I want to take this opportunity to thank her. Master, this is your Padawan comming you from Naboo, as promised. I hope this progress report is to your liking.**

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**ErinKenobi2893:**** Palpacreep, Palpacrap. And WILD TYPO TURKEY? Where do you come up with this stuff? Thank you so much, and I want more of your craziness! **

**Fanfic Lurker:**** It occurred to me that you are hardly a fanfic lurker. You're one of my most constant reviewers. The Evil Council of Doom might certainly form… but we don't know when, yet. I like the ring of it. Evilcouncilofdoomevilcouncilofdoom…**

**SWfanfan:**** Thank you for the good wishes! Happily, I have successfully completed one piece of coursework, only to be embroiled in another. Adorableness continues. XP**

**Katerinaki****: Thank you for the kind words. I really don't know what to say to something like that. I hope I don't disappoint. And I really want to see how YOU describe things! Do you write here?**

**Queen Yoda:**** There is always hope. Hope ignites the stars. And Obi-Wan never quite gives up… though he wallows in completely unnecessary self-depreciation half the time. The drums were bad enough, eh? But here…hehe… here, you'll hear nothing. I suppose that's even more terrifying. Thank you as always, dear.**

**SK12Monster:**** That excerpt will most likely creep you out in context. Tell me what you think!**

**Palpacreep…**

(:~:)

_Padawan, I was not aware that you had dedicated your life to understanding the way of the sluggard and not that of the Jedi. _Qui-Gon's voice is gentle, but holds an undercurrent of steel.

Jerking awake, Obi-Wan fights through a haze of weariness to focus on the Senatorial Candidates' debate once more. So far he had learnt naught from the experience save that both politicians were essentially aiming for the same goal, with nearly the same method and the same promises. _Politics_, Obi-Wan decides, _follows the same formula every time without fail._ One: Investigate the wishes of the public. Two: Draw up several 'plans of action' in which you promise to deal with these issues, but never saying exactly how you will do so. Three: Somehow mold these issues public interest of yours into your own stylised self-image, and bring the argument from governmental plans to personality. Four: Accuse the other candidate's personality under the guise of questioning his plans.

Obi-Wan's lips quirk in a grin. It occurs to him that much of politics is _ad hominem._ No matter what a politician would promise, it is only a select few who could ever be trusted to carry out those promises; the rest ride a wave of favourable public opinion based on some fake façade and then wallow in ambivalence for their term of office. And when re-election year rolls around, the politicians foray out into the masses, kiss a few babies, shake a few hands, support some small non-profit organisation against corruption – and once more the tide of majority votes carry them into power.

Democracy. Ha ha ha.

Some of Obi-Wan's thoughts must have rolled over into the bond, because Qui-Gon's fingers twitch where they are clasped behind his back, and he turns a stern, if not amused glance down at his apprentice beside him.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon murmurs, "The council did not assign you to this mission with the intent to know your – dare I say it – quite accurate description of politics in general. Might I remind you that your contribution to the mission report is appearing quite lacking for the present time?"

Obi-Wan's reply is a muted thrum of contrite embarrassment in the foot or so of space between them. Their hands folded behind their backs at parade rest, the two Jedi stand just off the edge of the theatre podium where senatorial candidates Palpatine and Naberrie continue their battle of words.

"Governor Palpatine." Atushi Naberrie's face is gently grinning, exuding calm self-confidence. "We have all heard your arguments; but I advocate a slow separation with the Trade Federation. Surely a complete cutting of ties with the Federation would weaken Naboo's economy, not strengthen it?"

Straightforward. But Palpatine never is.

"Ah, therin lies the misconception." Palpatine's lined cheeks wrinkle further with a genial smile. "The Trade Federation is growing steadily less further from what we would call a business amalgamation and closer to an independent group of systems."

The crowd hushes in fear, murmurs dancing over the electrified air.

A pause, like a puppeteer toying with the strings of his marionettes. A breath, of sorrow, of regret. "We all saw what occurred on Phindar with the Offworld Mining Corporation," Palpatine continues sadly, a shadow of grief moistening his eyes. "We cannot allow – _I _cannot, and I _will_ not allow the same barbaric practices to occur to our people. I fear that we cannot serve both the demands of the Trade Federation while upholding the upright morals of the Galactic Republic."

Tumultuous applause. Atushi Naberrie forces a smile onto his frozen features.

Palpatine turns from his opponent to the audience, swallowing audibly. "I do not take this power lightly, my friends, my family," he says slowly. "I wish only to protect us all from threats to our future peace. Think not only of yourselves; think of your children." Palpatine's gestures and – Obi-Wan muses that this could not _possibly_ have been unplanned – a woman in the crowd hands him her tiny two-year-old child. The governor's words ring with new power, swaying the crowd with their heavy magnitude. "This child is precious to me!" he cries, completely ignoring how the little girl takes one look at his gently smiling face and bursts into tears. "I will not let her come to harm! Neither will I let yours!"

The little girl is positively bawling by the time she is handed back to her mother, but the child's cries are swallowed by the screams of support exploding in an ever-cresting wave from the audience around her.

_And there we have it,_ Obi-Wan thinks wryly. _Kissing babies_. Dark or not, it seems as though Palpatine gives people of all ages a thorough fright. Sending resigned amusement ringing across their muted bond, he glances up at his master.

The grin slips off his face.

Qui-Gon's head is tilted slightly as he stares coolly at Palpatine. His entire body seems tense, coiled, ready to spring.

And then Obi-Wan reaches up and tugs on his master's sleeve in silent question.

Qui-Gon jerks out of his contemplation. "Padawan," he mutters disapprovingly.

Obi-Wan's face has somehow moulded into the exact same annoyed expression –if younger – that Qui-Gon has plastered in bold strokes all over his own features. His master does not seem inclined to break out of his silence, so with a determined frown, Obi-Wan gives Qui-Gon's cloak yet another sharp tug, accompanied by a sudden lowering of shields and a mental poke as well.

"_Padawan."_ Qui-Gon's exasperation is voiced both in a resounding growl in the Force and in a low murmur that shivers through the air between them. "What punishment do you think this merits?"

As if suddenly realising the extent of his actions, Obi-Wan releases the hem of his master's sleeve with a jerking motion, as if scalded, and flinches both physically and mentally away from the bond, which still seethes with Qui-Gon's annoyance.

Closing his eyes, Qui-Gon releases a pent-up breath and slowly fills his lungs again, blocking out the chaos of the crowd, the warm fluidity of Palpatine's words, and the… _pain_… in his padawan?

"Obi-Wan?" he murmurs. Qui-Gon doesn't open his eyes, but he knows his brow must be creasing with a frown. He knows he can't expect an answer – not an auditory one, anyway – but the bond itself stays suspiciously cool and quiet, with just a hint of cultured apology drifting detachedly towards him. Perfect poise, with a roiling sea of emotion hidden deftly behind quickly constructed shields. Only the merest whisper of the Force betrays the truth.

Qui-Gon nearly chuckles. So, a little negotiator stands by his side.

The roar of the crowd should be deafening, but the cacophony seems to surround master and apprentice in a barrier of sound, enclosing them in a strangely private half- sphere, even as they stand in plain sight against the wall of the theatre. There is balance here. Quiet in the midst of noise; peace in the eye of the perfect storm, twin candles of Light flickering in a lost sea of grey mist.

Steeling himself, Qui-Gon lets light flood his world again, and turns his slightly weary gaze down to the boy that examines the marbled floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the galaxy, gnawing on his lip as he does so.

"Little one," Qui-Gon begins gently. A sudden and quite bizarre desire to laugh wells up within him. He had begun this a few moments ago with a stern _Padawan;_ now, he is reduced to pet names again, in an effort to placate his apprentice. "What did I tell you about biting your lip?"

Surprise shatters Obi-Wan's shields like cool water through a haphazardly built dam. Slightly wet azure eyes flick upwards to meet lighter cerulean ones for an instant, then dart away before emotion can well up from those blue irises. Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow when his wayward padawan's lip blanches white with new pressure for an instant before returning to its normal shade of pink.

"Better." Qui-Gon turns back to the debate to mask the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Naturally, when he speaks, none of his amusement shows itself. "Now, on to your punishment – you didn't think I would let you get away with this, did you – patrol the city perimeter twice, then report back to me." At his apprentice's uncomfortable shifting, Qui-Gon relents slightly. "I do not think you need to worry. Theed is hardly Nar Shadda. Carry your 'saber with you, and keep your comlink on."

Obi-Wan bobs a contrite bow, his tiny braid swinging pathetically by his scarlet-tinged cheek, and turns to go.

This movement is arrested by a large, warm hand on top of his head. Obi-Wan nearly overbalances when his feet continue with their motion for a few moments but his head does not. Qui-Gon's deep chuckle resounds from behind him as his master's rough palm ruffles his hair once, and Obi-Wan feels the laughter coalesce into a sense of utter peace that dances once across their bond then back towards the older Jedi.

"Comm me if you sense even the merest hint of Dark." Qui-Gon's warning is accompanied by a mild rap to Obi-Wan's head.

Obi-Wan cranes his neck backwards to glance at the large Jedi. His master's twinkling eyes have an undercurrent of seriousness. But perhaps that is because Obi-Wan is examining at his master's features upside-down. How strange.

Qui-Gon does not begrudge himself a smile, now, as he lightly pushes his padawan's head to face the right way again. But he deftly conceals any emotion with an order. "I expect you to be back in time for evening meal."

Obi-Wan tilts his head in that particular angle that Qui-Gon has already learnt means a particularly amused and longsuffering _Yes, Master_,and at Qui-Gon's gentle nudge he slips into the melee of sound without further ado.

A small frown flits across Qui-Gon's brow. Has he really become _that_ transparent to his padawan?

Then one particular member of the crowd turns his jubilation into _action,_ and Qui-Gon throws himself into the resulting fray with a small sigh of annoyance. Pushing Obi-Wan out of his mind, he begins to wade his way through the brawl of uncoordinated limbs towards the two Governors. _We come to serve,_ he contemplates wryly. So when his sharp jab meets the wine-reddened face of a particularly pugnacious lump of a man with an extremely satisfying _crunch_, that too is also a fulfillment of service.

Just a rather untraditional one.

(:~:)

Obi-Wan lets the folds of his cloak hide the lightsaber at his hip as his boots click smartly down the cobbled streets. Theed is a beautifully bright city, its wide streets bustling with a babble of languages in the late afternoon sun. The focused light seems to flood the Palace Plaza with molten gold, somehow wreathing the colonnades with gossamer silk and the bleached-bright Triumphal Arch with spun sliver. To Obi-Wan, it seems as though his limbs are suffused with Light, and that he does not so much pace through a city on the cusp of sunset than glide across a sea of celestial glass.

The marketplace is still a chaos of shouted deals and unrestrained laughter at this hour, as stall-keepers seek to empty their tables at close of day. When Obi-Wan seeks to open his mind and become aware of his surroundings, the cacophony of voices threatens to overwhelm him in a torrent of images, emotions, and every other sense in between – but Obi-Wan empties his identity into the Force, seeking to anchor himself into the endless weave of melodies that are the Force itself. And gradually, Obi-Wan realises that the market itself is simply another symphony in the warp and weft that is the music of the spheres, another variation in the pattern the loom of the Force weaves at its will. The torrent within him slows and waltzes into a gentle swell; Obi-Wan no longer needs an anchor, as the Force catches him in its current and carries him as gently as a newly-fallen leaf on its turgid meanderings.

Belatedly, Obi-Wan finds he goes not go unnoticed on the wide streets.

Shopkeepers advertise their wares in an uncivilised shout straight into his tender eardrums, apparently reading his polite bearing as that of one of rich status. It certainly does not help that Qui-Gon had not imparted him with any credits – his pockets carry only his river stone, and his flute is cool against his forearm, but he has nothing of _monetary_ value on his person. But apparently this does not matter, because his slight bows of apology are met with titters from the younger women in the clothing shops and whoops of hilarity from gruff metalworkers. A few of them attempt to ruffle his hair, and do not even try to mask their laughter when he evades their motions with easy grace. And to Obi-Wan's eternal mortification, he realises he may be a Jedi, but this does nothing to prevent the impact his young features make. The older women, mothers and grandmothers, look upon his yet-unangled face and melt in their seats. A few of the fatter, more matronly ones even reach out to – _Force forbid_ - pinch his cheeks.

_Oh fierfek, no,_ he snarls mentally to himself, as an elderly woman creaks over on arthritic joints to grasp his padawan braid, crooning about his similarity to her grandson all the way.

"You're exactly like him, dearie," the woman smiles, revealing a dozen clean teeth, but the rest missing. "Except for the pretty manners. Stars above, that boy needs some setting straight."

Obi-Wan bobs a hurried bow and pivots on a heel, only to find a Muja fruit thrust in front of his face. His eyes follow the tanned fingers that grasp the plump purple fruit, up a rough-spun sleeve, to warm brown eyes edged with lines from decades of smiles. "Go on, kid," the man grins. "Excuse the wife. She dotes on our grandson, see."

A small shake of the head; Obi-Wan's hand pats his pockets and flips palm up, to show that he has no credits.

"No charge," the aged man says firmly. His rubs at his stubbly beard with his free hand, and then flicks a few fingers in the vague direction of Obi-Wan's hip. "It's the least I can do for that Order of yours."

Obi-Wan glances down and starts as he discovers his cloak has parted, revealing the sleek length of his 'saber resting on his thigh. A spike of unknown emotion surges up within him; but then he meets the warm gaze of the elderly man once more, and realises it is not a slight towards him that the man thinks only of the Order and not of the individual. Honesty shines in those earthy irises; the man has read Obi-Wan's insecurities like a book. In fact, the old man probably only spoke of the Order simply because he had instinctively sensed that this young Jedi with such impeccable manners would refuse a gift given solely for his sake.

Even now, there is a trace of amusement in that steady, wise eyes as they stare challengingly into Obi-Wan's own. There is too much read there to be normal; the Force hums quietly around the stallholder. Mildly Force-sensitive, then. Not enough to be called to the Temple, but far more than the average sentient.

Obi-Wan bows deeply at the waist, as respectfully as he would to a most revered master at the Jedi Temple. He would accept this gift as one in lower rank and less wise.

"Come back any time," the old man calls, his laughter oftentimes more coughs than chuckles, as Obi-Wan continues on his way. "No sweeter muja in the entire galaxy!"

Sunset takes the peace in Obi-Wan's heart and spreads it from his chest down to the tips of his fingers. An explosion of honeyed sweetness bursts in his mouth as his teeth break the muja skin. _By the Force. _ Obi-Wan muses that the old man might have been right about his wares after all.

The shadows lengthen as the hour passes; people begin to unfurl bright awnings to cover their stalls, and the streets quiet as most of the Naboo head home to prepare evening meal. Obi-Wan's footsteps turn into echoes that reverberate between the yellow-bricked houses as he reaches the edge of Theed. The wide avenue to the Palace stretches out behind him as the soft twilight wind ruffles the hem of his cloak.

A muffled noise from down an alleyway. Obi-Wan flips his nearly-finished muja from his sword hand into his other palm and flicks his 'saber from his belt. He would have shouted out a warning, if he could; as it is, he simply centers his thudding heartbeat and forces himself to wait.

In the grey pool of half-shadow where the passageway joins the main concourse, a hooded figure detaches itself from the bland wall behind it and slides forward with the sideways-crabbing motion of one that is accustomed to quick escapes. The voice, when it comes, is a raw rasp from vocal chords that are supposed to be young, but a worn rough by experience.

"Give that to me."

Obi-Wan raises the remnants of the muja fruit questioningly, taking care not to loosen the grip on his lightsaber as he does so. The figure does nothing more than slink forward a few more steps, the faintest notion of hunger emanating from its flickering Force-signature. A moment more, then the muja spins in a wobbling arc to land squarely in a red-skinned palm.

Without another word, the creature turns and darts off into the growing ink of evening. But as its fettered edge catches the dying rays of Naboo's sun, its hood is thrown back by a stray gust of wind, and a crown of stubby cranial horns glisten wetly in the fiery luminance. At the edge of a greater pool of shadow, a dividing line between Light and Dark like the sharpened verge of the galaxy itself, the figure turns.

Obi-Wan's sky-blue gaze meets a pair of fell yellow eyes; their irises of heaven and hell stare at each other across a blank ravine scythed in the Unifying Force, the line paradoxically distinct and blurred, like a lightsaber's blazing edge. Obi-Wan's hand twitches on his 'saber as the Force screams a warning in his mind, clarion-clear.

_Prophecy. Fate._ The Unifying Force floods his limbs with foreboding; the Living Force stays his finger on the activation switch. Now is not the time, nor the place.

Obi-Wan blinks, and those terrible eyes are gone.

A shock of clattering sound up ahead, as a demolition worker sends his last wall of the day crashing down in a cascade of bricks, allowing the final sunbeams to rush through the sudden opening, through the ink-lined street in which the fell-eyed shadow had stood. Obi-Wan flings a hand up to shield his face as the fiery spears of light throw his silhouette into sharp relief. These rays of the dying sun march in a sharp column back along the long avenue, through the hollow Triumphal Arch, pooling in the empty Palace Plaza, up through the open gate to the Royal Palace and the colonnaded hangar behind its gardens like soldiers of war, through marble and obsidian to the plasma generator complex, uncaring for the ray-shields that bar its way; and there, the light will fall forever down the lightning-riddled depths of the generator pit, seeking to end an unending shadow.

The sun slips below the horizon, its last mote of luminance a glimmer across Obi-Wan's 'saber hilt as he clips it to his belt once more.

But the darkness lasts for a moment, no more.

Glow-lamps flicker to life in the streets of Theed, spreading like fireflies in a gale; and as Obi-Wan begins his trek back towards teacher and food, he strides along a road paved with stars, with naught but the music of the spheres as company.

But it is enough.

(:~:)

These are the dead hours of night in the Royal Palace of Theed.

A Jedi Padawan is driven from his bundle of warm blankets by insomnia. Taking a polished flute from a low table, he passes his master's steady, muted Force-presence with the soundless steps of one accustomed to silence. The door closes voicelessly behind him as he heads towards the moonlit gardens.

A senatorial candidate pushes wistful thoughts of his daughter's bubbly laughter from his mind, and turns once more to the mountain of plans and paperwork he has yet to complete.

A solitary grey wraith flows smoothly from pillar to alcove, down the empty corridors, guards falling in his path like soundless puppets with their strings stretched taut, then snapped.

A darker shadow slinks in the footsteps of the grey, the wrinkles of its white, white smile mere ripples in the undisturbed air as he glides over the trail of corpses.

The Force is still.

(:~:)

Xanatos DuCrion has come by a few new pieces of intelligence. He had wrung it out of his informant, that tiny, pathetic slip of a Zabrak boy that has no name. And in light of this new information, he had decided to allow his plans to undergo a slight alteration. He had come to this planet on a double mission; but now his aims have changed. To put it simply, _revenge before money._

So it does not matter that an activation switch for the network of bombs hidden in recesses all over the palace sits snugly in his pocket; it does not matter that a hefty sum of credits will be transferred to his anonymous inter-systemic bank account should the bombs eliminate one specific sentient. Xanatos DuCrion would give that all up simply to hear Qui-Gon Jinn _scream._

The first crystalline flute-notes drift through the columned veranda towards where he crouches against the shadow of a pillar. Xanatos allows himself a grin to savour the moment, his hand palming his lightsaber from his belt, shifts his weight and–

"_I would not do that, my boy."_

Xanatos becomes aware of a burning heat at the back of his neck, like hellfire coalesced into a scorching line just over his skin. Swallowing a shout of pain, he forces himself to turn slowly. He sees naught but the edge of a tattered hood, and the moving shadow within it that grasps the crimson blade held to his throat. His wary mental probe _shatters_ off a solid miasma of sable.

"_So foolish."_ The voice is not a voice, but terrible, rasping words smashing through Xanatos's useless shields like a flamberge to wood-splinters. _"You seek to know who I am?"_ Dark laughter; terrible, smothered giggles of the insane, and powerful enough to ignore that fact. _"Let me first tell you what you are, Xanatos DuCrion."_

Xanatos wants to swallow, but the dryness in his mouth and the terrible line of fire at his collarbone prevents him from doing so. A monster is uncoiling in his chest, feeding on the sable ink of pure, unadulterated fear. Silence closes in around them; this creature has thrown up powerful sound shields in the Force without even seeming to move.

The shadow speaks, and when it does, it is as if its tongue were made of worms and its vocal chords unturned strings rusted with age. _"You are a Dark Jedi. Jedi are no more than pawns to be dispensed with…their very existence flickers with disgusting luminance. _The blood-metallic scent of plasma driftsfrom the scarlet blade. A pause; the shadow seems to smile, baring its teeth in a terrible leer that somehow scorches although it is unseen. "_You are nothing. You are a silhouette, nothing more; a shadow of a shadow is nothing at all. You cannot claim to be Dark when you still stand in half-light."_

Words somehow make his past Xanatos's dry lips. "Then take me as your apprentice…Master." The last word is a gasp of realization, a subjugation of a soul that knows it is hopelessly overshadowed.

A cackle, then words spat out like grease on a fire. _"You are unworthy. Unworthy to even fall by my blade._" The 'saber hisses like a dying snake as it retracts into its hilt; Xanatos feels sweat drip off his chin as he collapses to his knees, gasping for air.

"_You are warned."_

The Force shatters with a silent scream, and the shadow melts into the sable darkness, leaving Xanatos panting, his own compulsively activated 'saber a bar of lighter red, its new crystal spluttering in the wake of a stronger opponent. Xanatos slips round the pillar, aware that the Force-shields have disappeared with their caster; it is only a matter of moments before the sonorous hum of his 'saber makes his presence known to Jinn's padawan.

But as it turns out, even that is unneeded.

A voice snaps out from behind him, sharp with command and worry and furled recognition_._ "Obi-Wan! _Run!"_

The flute notes break off in a shattered cascade of crystal, and Xanatos slews around to find his former master mere meters away, his 'saber already a harlequin blur of old sentiment and new determination.

"Jinn," Xanatos snarls. He spares a glance over his shoulder to find Kenobi staring at him with wide, wide eyes. But Xanatos knows there is nothing more for him here – the shadow is watching. It must be. So he scythes his 'saber across the metal inlay of of the marble floor, sends sparks flying up into the Qui-Gon's face, and is gone in a patter of sprinting feet.

"Obi-Wan! Alert palace security!" Qui-Gon's shout echoes loudly in Xanatos's ears; and then his former master's boots clash on stone as Qui-Gon follows him.

Xanatos' fingers slip into his pocket, and find the activation switch ready. His breath hitches. _Not yet._ Soon. There is still a way to make Jinn understand his pain.

All he has to do is find a way to let Qui-Gon watch as his precious padawan is consumed by the imminent explosion.

Despite the tendrils of shadow still clinging to him as he flies through the palace, Xanatos DuCrion begins to laugh.

(:~:)

**Another cliffie. But the Force is with me, so I don't think I'll die here. Did you all like Palpy, by the way? I thoroughly creeped myself out writing him. I think I'll go back to the essay I'm writing now. Thank goodness IB trained me to spew deep stuff. Professors drool over it.**

**I'll see you next time. No excerpt today, I'm afraid; anything could happen next time… death, destruction, mayhem… Muahahahaha!**


	13. The Living Force

**Here we are. I AM sorry about the wait, but I have had essays thrown at me from every which way. I am rocking med school, though, so it's all going good. I don't know whether I've managed to reply to everyone – I might have missed those who have accounts but don't PM – so if I've missed you, tell me so I can apologise. Sorrow, awesomeness, and lessons learnt in this chapter.**

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**ErinKenobi2893:**** Yes, dark times… I've got some of palpacreep's reaction planned, actually. You'll see it sometime later. For the moment, I hope this does not disappoint. I actually felt a bit shattered writing it. Anyway, the political area would totally crash should Obi-Wan enter it. It would be amusing, though… I feel a oneshot coming on.**

**Guest:**** I'm flattered…thank you! Writing is a hobby of mine…medicine, unfortunately, I have to take exams for. Hope you like this one.**

**SWfanfan:**** Oooh, papercut. Nasty. Maul fan, are you? Maul gets some development in this one.**

**Fanfic Lurker:**** Are your hives better? No cliffies in this one, I promise. Just a bucketload of sorrow. And HAHAHA Xanatos deserves every bit of stuff I throw at him, anyway.**

**Queen Yoda:**** Most palace security guards have a datapad or two. Typing works! XD Anyway, I made Xanatos do all that cheap stuff because he is the definition of cheap. I actually get super pissed off at him because he's just so slimy. Lots of Maul, Sidious, Xan stuff here, though. Hope you like, 'cause your reviews are always awesome.**

**M.Y:**** Don't worry about Palpatine/Obi-Wan. It will come in time. I'm really happy you like my Palpy, because he hardly ever speaks properly in the movies as Sidious, and so is VERY hard to get right. Thanks so much for reviewing! It had a lot of good stuff in there I could think about. See you!**

**Darkness! Light! DEATH! (GASP!)**

(:~:)

Qui-Gon Jinn's boots beat a rapid rhythm against the marble and larmalstone floors of the Royal Palace of Theed as he flies down the colonnaded corridors. His heart is beating a more irregular rhythm, one that protests the sudden rush of epinephrine flooding his nervous system so soon after slumber. Actually, come to think of it, his knees are starting to ache, too, and his feet are rubbing painfully against the rawhide that lines the inside of his boots, for he did not think to pull on socks before going in search of his errant apprentice.

Ironic, that he darts after the shadow of his former apprentice now.

Xanatos's cloak is a whisper of liquid ink in the still night air; Qui-Gon does not so much chase a silhouette as listen for the murmur of wind against cloth. The tall Jedi curses under his breath as the young man's outline shimmers, then vanishes. Xanatos is far more proficient in arts of the Shadow now than Qui-Gon remembers. The ease with which the twisted Force-signature melds into the silken night is nowhere near comparable to Dooku's, but holds testament to no little skill.

The main entryway of the palace is silent as a tomb, the air stale and the plaza an empty necropolis beyond the yawning mouth of the heavy gates. Xanatos is at home here, a man dead to the Force slinking among the silence of a graveyard. His presence is empty. And he cannot be seen.

But Xanatos underestimates the intimacy with which his former master shares with the Force; and he does not understand the depth of the connection that once existed between them. Pausing on the ghostly white steps to the plaza itself, Qui-Gon makes his next breath a slow, centering inhalation of the Force itself, gathering the light of the stars themselves and cradling it within him, in a vortex of wonder and glorious clarity. The Living Force pours into him from the infinite lanterns of the galaxy itself, an influx of heat and ice so sharp and clear that for a moment Qui-Gon feels as though his identity wavers, his very body a crystal vessel about to break.

The Light cascades out of him in a pulse of roaring life, sweeping through the necropolis in a wave composed of music from a million worlds, the laughter of billions of sentient species coalesced into a single shout, and every shade of colour from the turquoise of Felucian flora to the ochre of the Tatooninian Sarlaac. For one breathless instant, Qui-Gon is the water of the fountain at the plaza's centre; the petals of the smallest blossom emerging from the cobbles; the aquamarine slates of the roofs above; the vermin in the sewers, the nightingale in the silver leaves and the cold stars singing above. The necropolis explodes into life, a cacophony of birdsong rising over the twisting treetops.

Qui-Gon tenses. _There._

The sole whisper of death comes from the former Jedi darting out into the starlight, a rat caught in the hunter's spotlight.

A leap that dances over the currents of the Force; a searing line of emerald fire reaches towards the shadowed edge of a cloak–

And a scarlet claw snaps into existence, _fear_ polluting the Force like mercury in spring water. The fear is not Qui-Gon's. Nor does is it from his former apprentice.

Xanatos DuCrion's smile is a panting curl of lupine lips over bared teeth as he presses his lightsaber to the wrinkled surface of an old man's throat, using the civilian as a shield between him and his former master. The elderly Nabooian's breath comes in gasps of wheezing pain. The burning effluvia of crimson plasma is close enough to bathe his aged features in sweat.

"Xanatos." Qui-Gon's lips barely move. "Don't."

"Oh, you and your love for pathetic life forms," Xanatos spits in return. "You've turned senile, old man. Your endless capacity for pity is endearing. And extremely useful." His free hand clutches the Nabooian's waxy white hair and yanks it backwards, baring the veined neck to the 'saber's scorching length.

Qui-Gon's lightsaber hovers at his side, not in offensive position, but very much ready to lash out at the slightest stimulation. "I am Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. What is your name?" he asks the captured man quietly.

"Eir. Fruit vendor." Well-worn lines deepen at the corners of the man's eyes as he tries to smile at his own weak attempt a humour, only for his features to turn into a grimace of pain.

Qui-Gon inclines his head slightly, even as Xanatos snorts in disgust.

With a sneer, Xanatos takes a step backward, pulling Eir along with him in his slow path towards a nearby public hangar. Eir winces as he shuffles along, the thin white fabric of his nightshirt drenched with perspiration. Qui-Gon follows silently, each step a measured dance, his sharp eyes searching for a trip in Xanatos's step, a tremble in his wrist, anything that could be exploited against him.

But there is none, of course; Xanatos has been trained well. Trained by Qui-Gon Jinn.

Qui-Gon must have shifted his weight slightly, for Xanatos tightens his hand on the hilt of his 'saber, bringing its thrumming length a hairsbreadth closer to his hostage's skin. The Force is taut with tension, and the sawing breath of the elderly man only serves to quicken the drumming of blood in Qui-Gon's ears. Even the birds have fallen quiet. The air thickens with the silence as morning mist gathers around them like a voiceless army, extending moist fingers to fog over their boot-buckles, wreathing their hair in dampness, concealing them from the prying eyes of the earliest risers. Qui-Gon and Xanatos duel with naught but their minds in a clearing amidst forest of vapour, a paradoxically private arena in the public arcades of Naboo.

When Qui-Gon speaks, his voice is a whipcrack lost in the muted blank whiteness encircling them. "Xanatos. Every hangar in Theed has security forces. By now, my padawan will have no doubt notified palace security, who will in turn alert the hangar guards. You are alone. The chances of you leaving the planet are minimal at best. Surrender and you will have a fair trial on Coruscant."

Xanatos's laugh is a terrible thing, clawed from his lungs by betrayal, dripping with blood of father and bitterness of son. "There is no such thing as a fair trial for a Dark Jedi, _Master._"

"Why are you here?" Qui-Gon is stalling for time with his words now, seeking to create a distraction. "What is your purpose? I have never known you to be without a goal, Xanatos." His gut clenches painfully; this particular truth came to light in a terrible tearing of their bond on Telos.

Of all the actions Qui-Gon had expected Xanatos to do at this moment, he did not expect him to smile in victory. The smile is a lightning bolt in time. It had flashed on the face of a thirteen-year old, all those years ago.

"You're as easy to manipulate as ever, Qui-Gon," Xanatos chuckles. "Two things." His grip shifts on his lightsaber as trails of sweat render the metal slippery. Qui-Gon's pace is steady as ever, but the tick of movement is as bright as the sun. He would move on the next irregularity. "One: I want you to understand what it means to be broken." Xanatos's confidence sends a spike of doubt into Qui-Gon's mind – he cannot help sensing he has missed a vital observation.

"And two." Xanatos's head tilts to the side, dark gaze boring into his master's sky-blue ones. "Why did you assume I came alone?"

The Force shrieks a warning; The bond flares in a burst of terror from Obi-Wan; Qui-Gon's shout is lost in the frenzied hum of Xanatos's lightsaber; and the world dissolves in a reverberation of terrifying magnitude, the repercussion rolling through the fog towards them from the direction where they came, thudding in their bones, driving sharp splinters into their eardrums. The fog eddies, agitated, as the very air echoes with the klaxon scream of alarms. Qui-Gon's pivot in place sends the edge of his cloak flying, but the mist separates his sight from whatever the source of disturbance was.

A choked gurgle from behind Qui-Gon has him spinning on a heel, emerald lightsaber whirling as he curses his distraction–

And _agony_ blossoms into the Force like tendrils of blood curling in water.

Qui-Gon takes a step forward and falls to his knees beside Eir, who chokes on the smell of his own burning flesh as he lies nerveless on the dew-lined cobblestones, confusion and shock etching fissures of pain into his already lined face. The deep carmine of Xanatos's lightsaber fades into the mists like a fleeing nightmare.

Sky-blue eyes meet fading russet ones, and the Force begins to stir.

(:~:)

When Obi-Wan comes to, the world is all in disarray.

Stone dust covers him from the tips of his matted hair to the bloodied soles of his bare feet, ground into his pale sleep-shirt and running in dark trails down his sweat-lined face. When he at last blinks enough of the dirt out of his eyes to see, confusion sends his senses into discord. He is quite sure he had been sprinting down a particularly magnificent corridor away from the security garrison, but what surrounds him now is not opal and marble, but a strewn battlefield of debris, wooden splinters and the terrible harsh whiteness of emergency lighting.

Crouching in the looming shadows created by the mountains of shattered stone, Obi-Wan is somewhat gratified to find the cool length of his flute is still in his sleeve. He gives himself a mental flick of reprimand for leaving his 'saber in their quarters; the blade would have been useful here, both for light and to clear a passage.

After much careful shifting, and several more nicks to add to the scraps covering his entire frame, Obi-Wan manages to reach the edge of the carnage, where a dusty but still sturdy corridor stretches out towards the gardens.

A blur of movement in the corner of his vision.

Obi-Wan whirls on a heel, ignoring the crunch of broken class under his bare skin – the pain has already grown until it turned into numbness – and dashes after the shadowed figure. He is quite aware that without a lightsaber, he might be committing the height of folly, but he is also aware of his duty as a Jedi.

In the flashing on-off luminance of the white emergency light-strips, the cloaked form seems to shunt horribly from motion to motion, missing the smooth movement between one leap and the next; it flickers from one position to another, a horrible dance of broken puppetry, hooded head tilting in strange angles as it flashes in its stop-motion path up the corridor away from the klaxon wails of the security alarms.

But the figure must be a living creature, for it grazes a pillar with a grunt, and objects spill out of its cloak. It pauses for a moment, then growls a curse and darts away.

Obi-Wan dances over these solid shapes, and registers their shape from an obcure holo-book in the archives. Weapons-grade explosives, wires sticking out from their blank interfaces. So the object of his pursuit is responsible for the chaos they just left behind, then. Spurred on by this new knowledge, Obi-Wan is so intent on his pursuit that he does not notice the surge of warning in the Force.

Unstable from the previous blasts, the ceiling ahead of collapses inward, smashing into the scarred marble below with cracking retorts. Obi-Wan skids to a halt, catching a glimpse of the figure as it turns its head to glance back at him.

Yellow irises meet grey-blue. Recognition flares in the Force, like molten iron ore sparking into hazy air.

Then another tonne of marble crashes between them, sealing a wall in the Unifying Force between present and future.

In the half-shadow of the blinding white lights, Obi-Wan remains standing, staring at the blank wall ahead for a moment longer, and then slowly retraces his steps, to where the blocks of explosives still lie innocuous as bricks on the dusty floor. There, among all the mess of unwired weaponry, lies a single pebble-like oval.

Obi-Wan stoops to pick it up. The texture of the not-quite-sphere is worn under his fingertips. A muja pit.

He can still taste the sharp sweetness of that muja; feel the weight of it in his hand as he nonchalantly tossed it to the other boy. The half-finished fruit had smacked into that red hand, and they had nodded at each other before going their separate ways.

That had been sunset. But now, Obi-Wan realises, it is almost sunrise. He pockets the muja pit with a wordless sigh, and begins his search for a safe path out.

(:~:)

The mist is clearing in the plaza as morning approaches; but whether it comes singing a song or a dirge is unclear.

"Look at me," Qui-Gon orders as he deactivates his weapon and returns it to his belt. His rough hands gently examine the deep charring of the 'saber wound in Eir's chest, sending what little healing he can into the seared gash. But although he sends a tireless trickle of cool power into the injury, Qui-Gon knows that nothing can be done. Xanatos had been sly, indeed. The wound is not deep enough to cause instant death; rather, it was intended to prevent Qui-Gon from pursuing. Death would have caused instant acceptance on the Jedi Master's part; Injury would lead to a desperate effort to save what cannot be saved.

None of this changes the terrible fact that Eir has only minutes to live. Not even Master Healer Vokara Che – not her, nor Avarin could do anything for him, even if they were here.

"Master…Jinn." Eir's words are an exhalation of exhaustion. It is the voice of an old man full of years, and is strangely glad that at the last moment, he will not pass on alone. The Force wreathes the damp white curls on his aged head with luminance; it hums a soothing lullaby to welcome back one of its own.

Qui-Gon senses the Force pulse with each slow, fading throb under his fingers, and bows his head in acknowledgement of an equal. "Master Eir."

A quiet chuckle, that turns into a gasp. "You read minds, the whole lot of you." Eir murmurs, his bright earthen eyes closing halfway. "A few dozen more of those…midi-things…and I could have been…a Jedi, you know."

For that, Qui-Gon does not have a reply. He nods instead, holding the other man's gaze with a steady regard of his own. The air is not only damp, now. It carries the scent of smoke and fire, somewhere not far off, back towards the palace.

And with the scent of death, comes another realisation. "You sensed my Force-pulse," Qui-Gon says. It is not a question.

"That was why…I left my house, yes."

The Jedi takes a slow, centering breath, driving away the guilt that spikes in his chest.

The old man shifts slightly, understanding.

"Master Jinn," comes a whisper. With an apparent effort, Eir's eyes refocus on Qui-Gon's. "Yesterday… I met your companion. The most intelligent, perceptive boy. Gave him a muja." Despite the halting weariness of his words, the corners of his lips twitch with a smile. "He your son?"

Qui-Gon shakes his head, swallowing. "Apprentice."

A small snort of laughter. "Stubborn, aren't you?" The old man's gaze clears suddenly, and Qui-Gon finds himself staring into a steely gaze, like spears browned from rust, but trophies of a life filled with experience and happiness through hardship and war. "Oh, I see." Eir closes his eyes briefly. "The other one was your son too. Once."

The Jedi master's face is wiped clean of emotion, but his hands still shiver once, still pressed over that awful wound. So he starts, surprised, when cooling hands cover his own.

Eir's gaze is uncannily similar to Jedi Master Ki-Adi-Mundi; wise, humoured, and accepting. He weakly taps Qui-Gon's fingers, and the tall Jedi removes his hands from the burnt layers of clothing and flesh, helping the dying man arrange his palms on his ruined chest. As the early-morning mist begins to clear, and the eastern sky lightens, Eir takes a longer breath, inhaling the living currents of the Force itself, and opens his eyes for the last time. The words, when they come, are soft, but serious.

"Teach him well, Master…Jinn. Do not…judge him…by the sins…of his older brother."

Qui-Gon nods once, and bows his head in deference to a master's teachings.

The Nabooian sun breaks the horizon like an advancing army to the east, its bright rays chasing away the last wisps of windblown mist, suffusing limbs with warmth and casting Qui-Gon's aquiline features in bronze, pouring liquid gold over him where he crouches over a figure resting, as if asleep, on the light-drenched cobbles of Theed. And with it the Force sings gently, lulling, inviting, paving a path with its soft notes into the music of the spheres itself.

Eir does not feel the warmth as it caresses him in the folds of the Living Force. He is already gone; a new melody wanders in the endless variations of the music of the spheres.

Qui-Gon places a hand on the thin shoulder, offering comfort more to himself then to what is not there. "There is no death. There is the Force," he murmurs quietly. "Rest, master."

Then he rises and turns toward the Palace and its echoing klaxons, for he has sworn an oath to protect the living.

(:~:)

Dressalian Pilot Saret Stellarian stares down the length of the crimson 'saber and decides that no matter what his job description had stated, he is in no way prepared for _this_.

"_Move aside." _The young man's pale face is slick with sweat.

It is not the lightsaber at his throat, or the corpses of security guards that line the hangar door, that causes Saret to comply. It is the deranged, haunted wastes that are the eyes of the man grasping the scarlet blade. This is the gaze of a once-proud man with demons at his heels.

Saret moves aside because the demons are most likely to follow this crazed young man, and not him.

The sleek form of his Republic shuttle catches the first rays of dawn as it powers through the hangar at five times the legal indoor flight speed and punches out of atmosphere and into hyperspace.

A clatter of boots on duracrete; an entire platoon of palace guards rush into the hangar bay. A few slew to a halt, eyes widening as they take in the corpses littering the entrance.

"Where?!" Their captain shouts.

"Out there." Saret gestures dazedly to the steadily brightening sky. "With a multi-million credit Republic shuttle. He destroyed the tracking system, too. With that bright stick of his."

"Bantha-chizzk."

Saret sighs, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. "My thoughts exactly."

(:~:)

Palpatine finds the small Zabrak boy wandering at the edge of the hangar. Evidently, he had arrived at the hangar to find his associate gone and no money in his pockets. For a moment, Sith Lord and Zabrak boy regard each other across the duracrete, the dawn light striking both their hoods but not illuminating their faces. Then the younger, red-skinned face frowns.

"What do you want?" the boy challenges.

Palpatine does not answer immediately. Instead, he allows a smile to spread across his features, one that shows his power, his façade, and his willingness to help. "That is hardly relevant. It matters not what I want. Let me ask you a question: what is it that _you_ want?"

The boy appears doubtful. The frown deepens on that scarlet forehead. "Power," he says, finally.

The grin on Palpatine's lined features widens imperceptibly. "Then come with me. I observed your actions at the palace this early morning, and believe you might have some…potential. I shall me your master, and you my apprentice. Come with me and I shall give you all you seek."

"Why?" The boy challenges.

"All in time. Presently, I must ask you another question. What is your name?"

A pause. Shame fills the air between them.

"Listen to me." Of a sudden, the words fall from Palpatine's lips like dark hammerblows on crystal. "I shall give you a name. You shall be called Maul."

"Maul." The Zabrak rolls the word on his tongue, tastes his new name, his new identity. "Maul."

"Come." Palpatine turns. "In time, you shall be _Darth_ Maul."

Palpatine's smile is white, whiter than the light itself, the whiteness of emptiness. Maul would not be _the_ apprentice. But he would do as a weapon.

Maul straightens fully as the wind catches the lip of his hood and throws it back, baring his scalp of red, red skin to the full glare of the light. "Yes, Master," he murmurs.

(:~:)

The dead are counted and tallied, a list drawn up by head of security; the Jedi master does his own part to reassure those in the palace; the Queen prepares a speech to soothe the frightened hearts of her people. The new senator will give his inauguration speech tonight, and it will be one of sorrow and regret. Governor Atushi Naberrie is among the victims, his office taking the worst of the blast. The Queen is glimpsed comforting his distraught wife while his uncomprehending daughter twists her fists into both their skirts, calling for her daddy.

Qui-Gon Jinn finds his apprentice in the plaza, kneeling by a prone figure covered with a linen sheet.

His steps slow as he approaches them. _Eir._

Obi-Wan does not react as Qui-Gon crouches and places a hand on his shoulder. The bond remains muted and quiet, even when Qui-Gon clears his throat at states quietly, "Padawan."

A small shake of the head is all he receives as an answer.

Qui-Gon lowers himself to the ground beside his apprentice and counts the bruises and scrapes that cover Obi-Wan's skin. The boy is clad only in a thin shirt and sleeping pants; old scratches from ilum and new lines bleed scarlet from his feet. Despite the warm morning air, he is shivering.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon tries again. "We should visit the medcentre. Your injuries exceed my unremarkable repertoire of healing skills."

One of the small hands fisted on those scratched knees trembles, then turns, fingers uncurling to reveal a muja pit resting on the white, bloodless palm. Qui-Gon stares at it for a moment, then closes his eyes and releases his pity into the Force with a small sigh. Extending one of his own large hands, he folds Obi-Wan's fingers back over the pit, lending him security and reassurance with his firm grasp.

"I will contact the council," he says gently, "and request that he be cremated at the Temple and his ashes buried there, among the rest of our Order."

At this, the tremble in Obi-Wan's hands turn into a violent shaking. An audible swallow, and a single nod; that is all.

Qui-Gon releases his apprentice's hand and stands stiffly, ignoring the ache of protest in his joints. "His name was Eir."

Obi-Wan stands shakily, and closes his eyes as he bows deeply to the shrouded form of Eir. Qui-Gon does the same.

Then Obi-Wan jarrs in mid-movement as he tries to turn, and Qui-Gon catches him before his wounded legs fold beneath him. The palace guards around them look away, seeming to understand the shattered emotion of the moment. The tall Jedi gathers his padawan in his arms and sets off for the palace medcentre, knowing that Obi-Wan still avoids his gaze, but Qui-Gon chooses not to comment on it.

The pool of dampness collecting where Obi-Wan's face is pressed into his shirt tells far too much.

(:~:)

The service is short at the Jedi Temple. Few attend; this is not the funeral of a well-respected master, or an admired knight. Only Master Yoda and Mace Windu are there, along with a tall Jedi master, who rubs at the bristles of a new beard, and his padawan, who scrubs at his eyes with a bandaged hand.

"One of the Order, Master Eir was not." Yoda's gravelly voice is a balm of wisdom, of serenity, of sympathy. "And yet welcome him as our own, we do."

Qui-Gon nods at his apprentice, and Obi-Wan steps forward. The heavy folds of his cloak pool around his boots; he still paces with a slight limp. But his hand is steady as it ignites his lightsaber and touches its cerulean edge to the pyre, where the shrouded form of a little-known man lies in repose.

The flames spread quickly. Flickering light soon illuminates all their faces.

Qui-Gon's hand comes to rest on Obi-Wan's shoulder as padawan once more joins his master's side.

_Do not judge him by the sins of his older brother._

His hand tightens slightly; Obi-Wan glances questioningly up at him. Qui-Gon simply shakes his head mutely, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. Tilting his head, Obi-Wan returns his grin hesitantly, a little more of the grief in his eyes passing into the Force.

As the smoke rises into the sky above, master and padawan stand vigil together.

And in Obi-Wan's secret garden, cloistered in the heart of the Jedi Temple, a single muja sapling emerges from the wet earth, tasting the clean air for the first time.

(:~:)

**WHOOOHOOO! You have no idea how good that feels to have finished the first mission. I shall give them an interlude, so to speak, but I will have them in action again soon enough. I considered splitting this into different stories, actually, like Ruth Baulding's excellent Lineage series, but I decided keeping it in one story works best, so I'll continue the story here! I will also write a oneshot thing as an epilogue to this arc, probably. I'll see you all soon, and please tell me what you thought! Until the next chapter!**


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